Oliver Twist and the Revenge of Zebedias Quigsnip
by GenXer2
Summary: Two years have past since Oliver's rescue and the disimilation of the Fagin gang. The events have been all over the London Times, and radical reform is at hand, thanks to Oliver's story. But Oliver is tormented by guilt over Nancy's death. But an evil character from Oliver's past has returned, determined to destroy everything the boy loves...
1. Chapter 2

2

The gravesite sported a gigantic stone angel, its wings overspreading the large marble slab.

On the stone there was inscribed a single name.

_Agnes Fleming._

The thin, frail boy, and the red-haired nineteen-year-old girl stood there quietly. The boy was weeping softly. He had just lain a nosegay of bright flowers he had gathered form Brownlow's garden on the stone beneath his mother's name.

The cemetery was a large, gated affair. Only personages of upper-class respectability were buried in this place. The corpse of Oliver's aristocratic mother had once lain in an unmarked pauper's grave. Upon Oliver's request, her body had been moved here, among the other members of her family. On the right side of her grave lay the remains of her father, the fourth Lord Fleming, who had only recently passed from this world.

Tears spilled down little Oliver's face; the child couldn't help himself. Rose hugged him tightly. Oliver wiped his eyes with his laced sleeve. In his mind, he could picture the face of his mother, who had died in the rich bloom of her youth. Though the boy had never seen his mother with his own eyes, never known the tenderness of her voice or her kisses, he could picture her very well. He had been shown the painting of her in Brownlow's mansion of course, the one Mrs. Bedwin had noticed bore an uncommon likeness to himself—the sad eyes, the blonde hair, the delicate aristocratic features. And later, Oliver had been given a small photo of Agnes, standing in a group portrait among others of her family, including her regal-looking mustached, white-haired father. Everyone in the picture of course, wore stern formal expressions. But Oliver's mother still looked sad and forlorn, with her natural frailness, blonde locks, and wide, expressive eyes. The photo had been taken about two years before Oliver's mother had become pregnant with him.

How very pretty and vulnerable she had looked in the photo. The artist had captured her young beauty. But Oliver had imagination to picture her in her vibrant youth and health so much more vividly than any artist ever could. Even now, as the boy shut his tear-choked eyes, he pictured his mother with her golden-white tresses, nearly as blond as his own, her deep blue expressive eyes, and pale, fine features, almost as if he could reach out and embrace her. Oliver pictured her looking at him lovingly, in her lace-embroidered dress that she'd worn in the photo, against a background of rolling emerald green hills, and a sky of impossible blue filled with frothy, white billowing clouds. Like the rolling landscape on the coast of England. Only this wasn't England-it had to be heaven. Yes, yes, that was where his dear, sweet mother was now.

''E-hem,''said a voice to Oliver's right. The boy looked up.

To their right stood a young constable in uniform of about twenty-eight. He regarded them sternly, with cold, black eyes a longish nose over a bristled, handlebar mustache. Rose and Oliver regarded him pensively.

''I do not mean to interrupt your mourning, Miss and young man,' the constable said, ''but I assume you are relatives of the deceased.''

''Why yes,'' said Rose. ''Yes, we most certainly are. She was my sister, and the boy's mother.''

''I see,'' he said, ''You, then, are young Oliver Twist Fleming, then heir to her estate and all her entitlements.''

''I'm sorry sir,'' said Oliver, ''but I never took my mother's last name.''

''Oh,'' the man said, 'and would you like to?''

''Oh, yes.''

''Well then, I am here to tell you some news. The new Lord of Wilshire has requested that you take your place as rightful heir to your mother's estate.''

'But can he?" asked Rose ''His father's fortune, you see—''

The constable dismissed with a wave of his hand. ''None of that matters now, young man," he smiled. "Now that everyone knows who you are. His lordship, who is also your blooded great uncle has made his request. It's up to you, young Oliver to accept it.''

Oliver was startled. This certainly was news to him.

'AH,' exclaimed the constable. ''Here his lordship comes now.''

Oliver and Rose turned around. There were a number of other mourners in the cemetery today, all members of the gentry and nobility. A few groups of them had been about when Oliver and his aunt had arrived in their carriage. They had noticed this man at the time, but neither of them had paid him any attention.

Now the saw him, draped in aristocratic finery, striding across the smooth green turf toward them, a silver topped cane held in his right grasp, a broad cloak flowing about his thin shoulders. He had a thin, almost gaunt face, and hard, sharp, but still friendly- seeming eyes as a smiled at them in greeting. He was a young, fair-haired man, his blond locks thick and slightly curled, probably not past his thirtieth year.

Oliver knew he had an uncle on his mother's side, but he'd never chanced to actually meet him until this moment. His name, Oliver knew, was Peter Fleming, fifth Earl of Wilshire. The older Lord Fleming had left no male descendents, only Agnes, so young Lord Henry was no in charge his estate.

''So you're Oliver, my sister's son.'' He said looking down fondly on the boy, 'so glad to finally meet you. And you Rose, I've heard so much about both of you.'' The man reached down and tossled Oliver's ash-blond head.

''I'm glad to meet you too, sir.'' Oliver said.

''You've got to tell me all about those adventures of yours among the thieves in London'' Lord Peter told him. ''All of it. Especially the burglary at your aunt's house.''

Oliver winced. He'd rather have forgotten the memory of the burglary itself, of how Sikes and Crackit had forced him to wriggle through the window, and how the butler had shot him in the arm—and how he'd wakened, woozy from blood-loss on the road and had to staggered drunkenly back to the house. After that though, the worst of his adventures had been finished.

''I believe I did not introduce myself before,'' intoned the constable. ''I am Chief Inspector Flickart, young sir. And I have been hired by his lordship to look after you in case of….possible foul play.''

''What sort of foul play'' asked Rose. ''And surely you don't mean to say that you will be guarding us-or Oliver. We're quite safe at my house, or at Mr. Brownlow's. We won't need—''

''Now just one second, good Miss,'' said Flickart, ''I am not so certain of that, especially when one of London's most notorious crime lords is still on the loose. But the real danger comes if Oliver is accepting of his new title as the future Baron of Wilshire. There may possibly be—how may I put this delicately—attempts to do the boy harm.''

''Whatever can you mean?''

''I'm afraid I cannot explain everything to you. Not presently, at least. But there have been no less than six burglary attempts in the area within the past month. And all have one common thread to their credit. Every home included was owned by someone who had some connection with the Flemings.''

''But that couldn't mean—''

''You are not aware of the other threads, ma'am." Flickart told her. "other threads that run deeper, far into the London underworld-and, I'm afraid deep into this boy's past as well.''

Oliver, who was now clutching Rose around her waist, gave a slight whimper of dread.

''I don't intend to fright you, my boy," Flickart told him. 'but these are matters that _must_ be discussed if you are to accept his lordship's offer.''

''But we've already known about Oliver's past,' said Rose, "And Oliver is not going to accept this. Are you, my dear?''

Oliver turned to Lord Peter. '''Thank you, kind sir' he said, 'but I really don't care about the money, sir. I've got enough of that already. And I don't care about having a title at all. I don't want to be a lord. ''

Lord Peter looked a bit consternated for a moment. Then he said, ''Really boy, I'm not sure you've given it enough thought. You'll have more than a paltry middle-class inheritance. You'll be one of the richest boys in all of England—''

''But I've already explained. I don't care about that, '' Oliver said. 'And even if I did, I'm richer now than I ever dreamed I could be.''

Unfazed by the boy's obstinacy, Lord Peter said, leaning down to Oliver's level, and gazing him straight in the face, ''Look, boy. I know you better than you think. Tell me, what do you plan to do with that wealth of yours?''

''Well, I should hope that I could use it to help the other children who are still in the workhouses, and in the mines, and the children who are cleaning chimneys-''

''You wish to do them all good, eh. Then think, if you will, how much _more _good you may do them with a title to your credit. Why once you're of age, you will have great influence in the House of Lords and in Parliament. One day the New Poor Law will be abolished, and the workhouses done away with entirely.''

''I should like to see it done sir,'' said Oliver, surprised at the fierceness in his own voice.

''Then are we in agreement.''

''I-I'm not sure, sir,' he said, suddenly faint. Having a title still was not something he was sure that he 'liked.

'Think about it, my boy,' said the man. Lord Peter turned to leave. 'You will hear from me again.'

''Glad to have met you, young Oliver,'' said Inspector Flickart. He suddenly shook Oliver by the hand. ''Now I must go.''

He smiled at the boy and his aunt and turned to follow Lord Peter.

''Wait,'' cried Oliver.

Both men turned around.

''I've decided,'' the boy cried 'I'll do it. ''

''Oliver -cried Rose.

Oliver looked up at her. "I mean it, Rose. I want to."

''What is it, my boy?" asked Lord Peter.

'I always wanted to have my mother's last name.'' Oliver told them.

''Well, now is your chance to claim it. And I'm very certain she'd be very proud of you,'' said Lord Peter.

'''But I'll only have the title on one condition''' the boy told him.

''And what might that be?"

''It is my friend Nancy. There is something I want you to do for her. ''

''Nancy—ah, isn't that the name of that poor girl who ended up murdered on your account?"

Oliver winced, but said, with a slight sob, "Yes, that is she.''

Lord Henry looked uncomfortable for a moment, having brought up Nancy's sacrifice. "I AM sorry boy, but since she is no longer with us—''

''I know, sir, but if it is alright by you, I'd like to see her buried here, right next to my mother.''

Lord Peter looked uncomfortable at this. "I…know how you feel….but I'm not really sure….she was, you know….a—"

''Please, sir. I'll only do it if you have her buried here. She's the only person I knew who cared for me when I was with the thieves. She means more to me than anyone, save my mother. And Rose here. And I'm certain she and I will be buried here when our time comes. So please—I want Nancy here as well.''

''The two women who meant the most to you –your mother and Nancy.''

''Yes, sir.''

''Then I'll see what I can do," his lordship said. 'in the mean time , why don't you and Rose come with us and see the new house that you'll be living in.''

''But I don't want to leave Mr. Brownlow,'' Oliver said. "Can he come live there, too? And Rose.''

''Why certainly. But that is up to them.''

''Then I accept.''

Lord Peter smiled fondly. ''You certainly drive a hard bargain, boy. Come, now, I'LL show you and Rose the estate.''

Interlude

The tall, cloaked figure with grinning filed teeth, and a black, stove-pipe hat stood on the corner in the gathering dusk. He was in an obscure, but still fairly genteel section of London.

Before him stood a shop. The storefront read_:_

_Zebedias Quigsnip_

_ Antiques and Furnishings_

_There were fewer people on streets at this hour. A few carriages still rattled past. Burglars and cutthroats were still about as this fairly prosperous district was located, as many such districts were, very near locales which were far more seedy. _

_The Grinning Man had stayed a day and a fortnight already in this facsimile of mainstream Victorian London, and he knew how it ticked here._

_And he knew who lurked behind the sinister storefront._

_He strode forward and knocked._

_For several seconds there was nothing. Then he gave a sudden flick of his wrist._

_The door flew open, as though of its own accord. The Grinning Man strode within._

_The place was heavily stocked with antiques of every size and description. _

_A young girl entered the room, gaping in shock at the weird stranger. She was thin, with straggly blond hair, and wide, blue eyes. ''Oh_! I did not hear you enter. But we are just closing sir. You must leave. But if you can name what you want, or write it down….''

''Oh, I'm not interested in any of your goods. I merely wish to converse with your employer on a matter of business.''

Clearly the girl was frightened by the presence of this sinister stranger, whose teeth were filed after the manner of some exotic African tribes, and whose skin was an unwholesome maggot-white. His eyes seemed bright in the dim light of the shop, as well. Too bright, in fact, and burned faintly the wrong sort of color. Was this man even an Englishman. Was he, in fact—

Before she could finish the _though even human_, the stranger spoke again. ''Where is he?"

''The man you want to see is my uncle, and he's—''

''Right here,'' came a gruff voice.

The tall cloaked figure turned around. He saw at once that there was a man behind the desk. He should have noticed him at once, but somehow he had not seen the figure behind the desk when he had walked in. And even now, uncannily enough, the dark figure of the man seemed to be both indistinct, and cloaked in shadow. He had an impression of hideous features, and a hunched over a grotesque, spider-like form. But when he looked directly at him, he found that his features became somehow even more distinct.

The girl, his niece, apparently noticed nothing strange, but to the Grinning Man the strange, spider-like hunched creature that was the owner remained almost shadowy, as if he were not quite there.

The Grinning Man, an alien on this alternate earth, knew very well why.

This man was a dangling plot thread.

A character, a villain, most likely, that the creator of this world had intended as major player in one of his novels, then written out. But the man was still here, and seemed to be very real to his niece, at least.

''Eloise, leave us,'' the gruff voice said. Then to the Grinning Man, ''What is _your_ business here?''

The tall figure stepped forward. ''What I want is to make you an offer. You deal in antiques, no? Then allow me to offer you this priceless artifact.''

Here the stranger drew a strangely wrought stone from his cloak pocket and placed on the desk.

The man behind it, though still mostly lost in shadow, bent near and examined it.

Curious symbols were wrought across its surface in gold.

''What is this.''

''No mere artifact, but a talisman of great power. It will allow you to achieve your rightful place in this world.''

''In this world? What can you mean?"

The Grinning Man now leaned forward and displayed his set of ghastly, grinning teeth. ''Tell me, sir. Is there not a certain young boy who drove you to financial ruin. A small, fair-haired urchin boy, perhaps? Who destroyed your greatest operation—and whom you desire retribution upon?"

The man behind the desk appeared to consider this for a few moments. Then he said, ''A lad with white-blond hair? And a revoltingly angelic appearance and manner?''

The Grinning Man nodded.

'' How…how did you know? You're not one of his friends, surely who took him in?''

''Oh, no. I know more about you than you think, Mr. Quigsnip sir. You are a loose end, a hanging thread as it were, waiting to be tucked back into the story that Mr. Dickens had the shortsightedness to write you out of.''

''Loose end? Story? Mr. Dickens? I don't know what you're talking about.''

The stranger grinned even wider, and in the manner of a ghoul. ''Never mind that. But you understand I know about your…problem. You want revenge or don't you?''

''I do.''

''This stone will bring you revenge. And more than that, it will bring you power—power like _nothing _you enjoyed before—power to virtually rule England.''

''Don't take me for a fool.''

''Place your hand upon the stone then—and feel what you cannot perceive.''

The man did this. And he reached out his hand and placed it on the stone, henearly cried out as the surge of incredible, brain-shattering power coursed through him.

And his arm and hand, while before had appeared still indistinct, though laying outside the shadows, now became fully discernible. The man's hand was large, and strong fingered, even though his hand was also a bit spider- like with rough-nailed claw-like fingers.

''I now seek to become your new business partner,'' the grinning man said.

''Uncle, don't—'' the girl started, from the background.

''Be quiet, Eloise,'' snapped the store owner.

The girl retreated back into the store.

The tall stranger snapped a contract down upon the desk. The grotesque owner started a bit. He hadn't noticed exactly form where the man had produced the contract—not that it mattered. He'd felt the power, and was now fully convinced, even though he would have regarded the whole matter with suspicion otherwise.

''Sign here,''the grinning man said.

The pair of spider-ish hands, gnarled and hairy picked up a quil and signed the name,

Zebedias Quigsnip

''Very, very good,'' Mr. Quigsnip. ''Consider us partners.''

And behind the desk, the grotesque store-owner, his features now clear, distinct, and even more

hideous, grinned back at him.


	2. Chapter 3

3

The carriages drove further and further out into the country. Lord Henry and Inspector Flickart rode in the first one, Oliver and Rose rode in the one behind.

The country breezed past them. They had traveled much further by now then Chertsey, where the Maylies' country estate was located. They were now riding over the wild slopes of the moors; Oliver recalled the days he had spent scouring the edge of the moors for wildflowers in his days following his recovery from his bullet wound. The moors stretched further than the boy could see, in shades of emerald and jade.

This being the early spring of the year, the moorland slopes were blanketed with heather, which grew in vast, wild drifts of vibrant purple, a wonder to the boy's eyes. The fragrance in the sweet, balmy, springtime air, tingled his nostrils; Oliver, his head out the carriage window, his white-blond-locks tossing in the breeze, inhaled deeply. Then he cried, gazing out over the gorgeous sweep of the moorland countryside, ''Look, Aunt Rose, it's beautiful.''

''It most certainly is,'' his aunt agreed.

They drove further still, past great slabs of stone, and antique stone walls, possibly erected by Picts in some bygone era.

At long last, they saw the great manor house and grand property grounds that now belonged Lord Peter Fleming, baron of Wilshire.

As they approached the vast iron gates, the guards swung them wide, and the carriages entered.

Oliver was awed. The great estate was larger, by far, than Brownlow's, and he had been overwhelmed by the finery of his friend's rich home when he first had the fortune to have been brought there.

And he was just seeing the outside of it.

The carriage came to a halt. Oliver and Rose got out. They were joined by the servants, as Lord Peter Fleming led them to the front door of his estate, and inside.

And yes, the inside _was _so grand that it far exceeded Oliver's expectations. T he ceiling was high and vaulted; a grand staircase wound up to unguessed levels. The great aristocratic drawing room was four times as large as that of Brownlow's, and very richly furnished.

Oliver gaped at the finery that his mother had grown up among, the richness that he himself might have been among the privileged to have known all his life, had his mother not fled in shame. How very different his life would have been.

''Well, young sir,'' Lord Peter said to him, ''what do you think of it?"

Oliver wasn't certain. ''I…..don't know. It's awfully big.''

''Yes, I'm sure it must seem very large to you, especially after all those years as a poor boy.''

''I'd always pictured my mother's house as something like Mr. Brownlow's. But-this! I can scarcely believe it.''

''Well, your mother, young Oliver, was a very much an aristocrat. She grew up with all the finery you never knew, poor lad. But, so long as there is no interference, which I wouldn't worry about if I were you, I am going to make you my heir.''

''If I might ask sir,'' inquired Rose, ''I'm not certain what you mean by interferences. Weren't you already prepared to adopt Oliver?"

''Well, yes, but…''

Oliver and Rose looked perplexedly at him.

''In truth, there is another matter which heretofore must be discussed.''

The words were muttered by Inspector Flickart, who was, at that moment, standing a few feet away from Lord Peter and the boy, facing one of the tall, curtained windows, through which sunlight profusely poured full upon the rich dark blue of his constable's uniform.

The constable was not facing them, so Rose and Oliver were uncertain if he had intended his words for them or if he was merely muttering to himself.

Silence reigned in the spacious drawing room for the next few seconds, creating an almost eerie hush in the vast room.

But then he said, ''You, Rose, and the boy might have wondered why a constable was needed for this inquiry.''

''Why, I suppose it has something to do with legal matters.''

''Not, I rather suppose in the manner you would assume,'' he said, turning around, his bristle-mustache-face regarding them with sternness. ''I am here on the account that young Oliver here may assist me in apprehending a certain felon.''

Rose and Oliver both drew a collective gasp.

''Now, now, do not be alarmed at the news I am about to tell you. But the burglaries which I had cause to mention before, in connection with Oliver's inheritance of this fine estate, I strongly believe, in common with a vast many break-ins around London have at their origin a man wanted for a vast multitude of crimes. Burglaries and thefts beyond number to his credit, in fact. Now let me tell you about him. You might wish to take a chair, my Lady.''

Rose settled herself down into one of the vast comfortable chairs in the room. Peter Fleming sat down as well. Oliver remained standing. The boy appeared to have been somehow affrighted by this sudden news, and seemed unable at the moment to persuade himself to relax.

Rose looked, a bit alarmed, over in the direction of Peter. The fair-haired young lord only nodded affirming that this was the reason behind the constable's presence in this affair.

''His name,'' the inspector quipped,'' is Zebedias Quigsnip. Now, I don't suppose that you have heard of him before. It's a respectable name, his real, but not one he normally uses in his nefarious dealings. I have long suspected him of being at the very nerve-center of crime in the City's great underworld.''

''We haven't heard of any such man, I am sure,'' said Rose, ''at any rate I certainly never have. And Oliver—well, the poor boy has never once mentioned that name in all his tales_!''_

''I scarcely imagine that he has. But I did rather hope-oh, bother! As I said, this man is secretive—very much so, in fact. He's made a respectable business for himself as a dealer of antiques on London's east side, and I'd say he possesses what amounts to middle-class respectability among his clients. BUT—he seldom uses his true name even among his legitimate dealings, and his antique business is a front, I now more than suspect, for far less savory trafficking. ''

''You mean,'' inquired Oliver suddenly, ''like…Mr. Fagin?"

''My boy, '' said Flickart, ''The man who held you captive in London was only a minor fence; Mr. Quigsnip is a major one. I suspect, in fact, that it is _he_ who is truly king and lord of London's criminal enpire. You may in fact never have heard of him.'' At this point, Mr. Flickart's eyes peered inquiringly at the boy. ''Have you?"

''No!''

It was apparent at that moment that Oliver had no wish to know him, either. In truth, a terrible fear and apprehension had come over the boy upon mention of the man, though he had never heard the man's name or anything else regarding him in his life.

''Well, boy,'' said Flickart, ''It happens that Mr. Quigsnip never, or rarely at any rate seems to venture forth from his darkened habitations, wherever they are. In fact, we have never seen him! Now you might suppose that odd, for a dealer in antiques, but we have never had glimpse of him, and as it turns out, only a few of his clients have had personal contact with him. He so seldom, apparently leaves his shadowed lair at all, at least not in full sunlight. But from eyewitness descriptions of him, I have had a sketch made of the man.''

At this point the inspector drew forth a piece of paper from his coat pocket. He thrust it in the direction of Oliver.

''You have seen many such grotesque creatures during your unfortunate captivity among the underworld. See if you may identify _this_ particular denizen.''

Oliver took the sketch, examined it.

And then collapsed into the nearest chair in a dead faint.

INTERLUDE

James Burton could smell the crowds. The profusion of sweaty human bodies purfumed the air.

At this point in history, he knew bathing had become fashionable, at least with the genteel classes. But here in the midst of London, the odor of so many humans, together with a multitude of other odors, was practically dreadful.

He smelt the coarseness of the smog filled air. The wood-smoke of hundreds of fireplaces. The nearby reek of rotting garbage and refuge from the slums, which, he knew were packed densely together with business storefronts. And the stench of human waste. All of it mixing into a rich miasma that scorched the nostrils.

To Burton, a man from another time, who was used to the delicate, perfumed scenes of air-conditioned complexes, and the purified sweetness of the pollutant-free air outside, the overall effect was staggering. He had been here before, after all. This was London of the eighteen-thirties.

Only not the London of the world he knew.

It looked, and in fact smelled, every bit the same.

There were the bustling, narrow, crowded streets. The rows of colorful storefronts, and the street vendors. The great domed building in the background. As always, carriages clattered over the cobblestones. There were the ragged, destitute people thriving almost cheek-by-jowl with the financially better-off. And the swarms of scruffy, lice-haired urchins, boys and as well as girls roaming the streets, the grown-ups keeping as watchful an eye on the hordes of wily brats as they could taking care to guard their pockets and pocket-watches.

As Burton began walking eastward down the street toward the center of London, he did notice that there was something different about here.

A t first he couldn't place just what it was. Then he realized that—one thing different at least—was the profusion of startlingly Dickensian faces he saw on the populace.

Maybe it had been like the other times.

But no. The more he looked, the more he examined the faces in the crowd, the more he became convinced that this was the case.

The bulbous noses, the jolly red cheeks, the almost comical chins abounded in the street upon every side. Of course, such Dickensian faces could have been observed on nearly any street in any metropolis in almost any human-inhabited time or world. But here, in addition to the profusion of stove-pipe hats, brass-buckled coats and silk scarves, there was a distinctly Pickwickian aspect to these characters which superceeded any he had chanced to observe ere now. One chuckling gentlemen, ruddy-faced with a tall had and smoking a long-handled pipe, might have passed for jolly old Mr. Pickwick himself.

Then he began noticing the countenances of the young women; the seemed startlingly more attractive than would have been expected. In fact a far greatly number of them could be called beautiful. Stranger still, most of the women somehow gave the impression, just to gaze upon them, of being virtuous. The often had large eyes which were either sad or kind or both. The young men, he noticed, seemed to be more handsome than would be expected. But then there were other people, both young and old, male and female whose appearance was altogether that of unsavoriness, and these projected an air of distrust, at to Burton; one such fellow, of perhaps young middle-age, passed him on the right. He had long, spiderish limbs and walked in a slightly stooped over fashion suggestive of a sneaking goblin. He had short, spikey red hair and, a cunning, toothsome grin, and small, ferret-like darting eyes.

Why, thought Burton, he could have easily passed for Uriah Heep, the scheming villain of _David Copperfield_.

Maybe that was who he was.

Burton felt a shudder pass through him.

Did ficticious characters truly walk the earth here?

Well, there was one sure way to find out.

He began searching for a newspaper stand where he might locate the latest edition of _Bentley's Miscellany_.

He found one, and purchased the latest copy—he had already brought with him plenty of Victorian money.

He examined the issue. It was marked October of 1839. Dickens should have been finishing up _Nicholas Nickleby_ at this time. But no entry of that story could he locate, nor any story by Dickens, nor any reference to him that he could see. No, wait—

He flipped back a couple of pages. There—

There was Mr. Dickens' name, after all!

But the story was all wrong, or at least he thought, for this date in Dickens' career. _David Copperfield._

Then he looked at the title's printing a bit closer. _The Life and Adventures of Charles Dickens_ was the full title of the work.

David Copperfield was the author!

Burton staggered back, his head swimming. He felt suddenly terribly dizzy.

He examined the page again. It was a lavish title page, framed by a plethora of Cruikshank-like ink-drawings. One depicted a jolly-looking gentleman smoking a long-handled pipe, another a wretched longish-haired young boy scrubbing a floor. The name ''Charles Dickens'' was in larger, bolder letters, so that the letters had jumped out at him first. But there was no mistaking that this was part of the title, _not_ the author's name.

He flipped the page over. This was chapter twenty-thee of the story. The chapter was written in first-person narration, he saw, and was describing the character's horror at the conditions of a shoe-polish factory—

Burton felt something for a moment in his back pocket.

He whirled around, nearly dropping the magazine.

A scraggly street-urchin with thick-matted, probably lice-ridden red hair was dashing away from. Burton did not have a good look at what it was in the boy's left hand that he was holding onto but he noticed a flash of silver-gold metal.

The kid had stolen the tunneler-device!


	3. Chapter 4

3

The carriages drove further and further out into the country. Lord Henry and Inspector Flickart rode in the first one, Oliver and Rose rode in the one behind.

The country breezed past them. They had traveled much further by now then Chertsey, where the Maylies' country estate was located. They were now riding over the wild slopes of the moors; Oliver recalled the days he had spent scouring the edge of the moors for wildflowers in his days following his recovery from his bullet wound. The moors stretched further than the boy could see, in shades of emerald and jade.

This being the early spring of the year, the moorland slopes were blanketed with heather, which grew in vast, wild drifts of vibrant purple, a wonder to the boy's eyes. The fragrance in the sweet, balmy, springtime air, tingled his nostrils; Oliver, his head out the carriage window, his white-blond-locks tossing in the breeze, inhaled deeply. Then he cried, gazing out over the gorgeous sweep of the moorland countryside, ''Look, Aunt Rose, it's beautiful.''

''It most certainly is,'' his aunt agreed.

They drove further still, past great slabs of stone, and antique stone walls, possibly erected by Picts in some bygone era.

At long last, they saw the great manor house and grand property grounds that now belonged Lord Peter Fleming, baron of Wilshire.

As they approached the vast iron gates, the guards swung them wide, and the carriages entered.

Oliver was awed. The great estate was larger, by far, than Brownlow's, and he had been overwhelmed by the finery of his friend's rich home when he first had the fortune to have been brought there.

And he was just seeing the outside of it.

The carriage came to a halt. Oliver and Rose got out. They were joined by the servants, as Lord Peter Fleming led them to the front door of his estate, and inside.

And yes, the inside _was _so grand that it far exceeded Oliver's expectations. T he ceiling was high and vaulted; a grand staircase wound up to unguessed levels. The great aristocratic drawing room was four times as large as that of Brownlow's, and very richly furnished.

Oliver gaped at the finery that his mother had grown up among, the richness that he himself might have been among the privileged to have known all his life, had his mother not fled in shame. How very different his life would have been.

''Well, young sir,'' Lord Peter said to him, ''what do you think of it?"

Oliver wasn't certain. ''I…..don't know. It's awfully big.''

''Yes, I'm sure it must seem very large to you, especially after all those years as a poor boy.''

''I'd always pictured my mother's house as something like Mr. Brownlow's. But-this! I can scarcely believe it.''

''Well, your mother, young Oliver, was a very much an aristocrat. She grew up with all the finery you never knew, poor lad. But, so long as there is no interference, which I wouldn't worry about if I were you, I am going to make you my heir.''

''If I might ask sir,'' inquired Rose, ''I'm not certain what you mean by interferences. Weren't you already prepared to adopt Oliver?"

''Well, yes, but…''

Oliver and Rose looked perplexedly at him.

''In truth, there is another matter which heretofore must be discussed.''

The words were muttered by Inspector Flickart, who was, at that moment, standing a few feet away from Lord Peter and the boy, facing one of the tall, curtained windows, through which sunlight profusely poured full upon the rich dark blue of his constable's uniform.

The constable was not facing them, so Rose and Oliver were uncertain if he had intended his words for them or if he was merely muttering to himself.

Silence reigned in the spacious drawing room for the next few seconds, creating an almost eerie hush in the vast room.

But then he said, ''You, Rose, and the boy might have wondered why a constable was needed for this inquiry.''

''Why, I suppose it has something to do with legal matters.''

''Not, I rather suppose in the manner you would assume,'' he said, turning around, his bristle-mustache-face regarding them with sternness. ''I am here on the account that young Oliver here may assist me in apprehending a certain felon.''

Rose and Oliver both drew a collective gasp.

''Now, now, do not be alarmed at the news I am about to tell you. But the burglaries which I had cause to mention before, in connection with Oliver's inheritance of this fine estate, I strongly believe, in common with a vast many break-ins around London have at their origin a man wanted for a vast multitude of crimes. Burglaries and thefts beyond number to his credit, in fact. Now let me tell you about him. You might wish to take a chair, my Lady.''

Rose settled herself down into one of the vast comfortable chairs in the room. Peter Fleming sat down as well. Oliver remained standing. The boy appeared to have been somehow affrighted by this sudden news, and seemed unable at the moment to persuade himself to relax.

Rose looked, a bit alarmed, over in the direction of Peter. The fair-haired young lord only nodded affirming that this was the reason behind the constable's presence in this affair.

''His name,'' the inspector quipped,'' is Zebedias Quigsnip. Now, I don't suppose that you have heard of him before. It's a respectable name, his real, but not one he normally uses in his nefarious dealings. I have long suspected him of being at the very nerve-center of crime in the City's great underworld.''

''We haven't heard of any such man, I am sure,'' said Rose, ''at any rate I certainly never have. And Oliver—well, the poor boy has never once mentioned that name in all his tales_!''_

''I scarcely imagine that he has. But I did rather hope-oh, bother! As I said, this man is secretive—very much so, in fact. He's made a respectable business for himself as a dealer of antiques on London's east side, and I'd say he possesses what amounts to middle-class respectability among his clients. BUT—he seldom uses his true name even among his legitimate dealings, and his antique business is a front, I now more than suspect, for far less savory trafficking. ''

''You mean,'' inquired Oliver suddenly, ''like…Mr. Fagin?"

''My boy, '' said Flickart, ''The man who held you captive in London was only a minor fence; Mr. Quigsnip is a major one. I suspect, in fact, that it is _he_ who is truly king and lord of London's criminal enpire. You may in fact never have heard of him.'' At this point, Mr. Flickart's eyes peered inquiringly at the boy. ''Have you?"

''No!''

It was apparent at that moment that Oliver had no wish to know him, either. In truth, a terrible fear and apprehension had come over the boy upon mention of the man, though he had never heard the man's name or anything else regarding him in his life.

''Well, boy,'' said Flickart, ''It happens that Mr. Quigsnip never, or rarely at any rate seems to venture forth from his darkened habitations, wherever they are. In fact, we have never seen him! Now you might suppose that odd, for a dealer in antiques, but we have never had glimpse of him, and as it turns out, only a few of his clients have had personal contact with him. He so seldom, apparently leaves his shadowed lair at all, at least not in full sunlight. But from eyewitness descriptions of him, I have had a sketch made of the man.''

At this point the inspector drew forth a piece of paper from his coat pocket. He thrust it in the direction of Oliver.

''You have seen many such grotesque creatures during your unfortunate captivity among the underworld. See if you may identify _this_ particular denizen.''

Oliver took the sketch, examined it.

And then collapsed into the nearest chair in a dead faint.

INTERLUDE

James Burton could smell the crowds. The profusion of sweaty human bodies purfumed the air.

At this point in history, he knew bathing had become fashionable, at least with the genteel classes. But here in the midst of London, the odor of so many humans, together with a multitude of other odors, was practically dreadful.

He smelt the coarseness of the smog filled air. The wood-smoke of hundreds of fireplaces. The nearby reek of rotting garbage and refuge from the slums, which, he knew were packed densely together with business storefronts. And the stench of human waste. All of it mixing into a rich miasma that scorched the nostrils.

To Burton, a man from another time, who was used to the delicate, perfumed scenes of air-conditioned complexes, and the purified sweetness of the pollutant-free air outside, the overall effect was staggering. He had been here before, after all. This was London of the eighteen-thirties.

Only not the London of the world he knew.

It looked, and in fact smelled, every bit the same.

There were the bustling, narrow, crowded streets. The rows of colorful storefronts, and the street vendors. The great domed building in the background. As always, carriages clattered over the cobblestones. There were the ragged, destitute people thriving almost cheek-by-jowl with the financially better-off. And the swarms of scruffy, lice-haired urchins, boys and as well as girls roaming the streets, the grown-ups keeping as watchful an eye on the hordes of wily brats as they could taking care to guard their pockets and pocket-watches.

As Burton began walking eastward down the street toward the center of London, he did notice that there was something different about here.

A t first he couldn't place just what it was. Then he realized that—one thing different at least—was the profusion of startlingly Dickensian faces he saw on the populace.

Maybe it had been like the other times.

But no. The more he looked, the more he examined the faces in the crowd, the more he became convinced that this was the case.

The bulbous noses, the jolly red cheeks, the almost comical chins abounded in the street upon every side. Of course, such Dickensian faces could have been observed on nearly any street in any metropolis in almost any human-inhabited time or world. But here, in addition to the profusion of stove-pipe hats, brass-buckled coats and silk scarves, there was a distinctly Pickwickian aspect to these characters which superceeded any he had chanced to observe ere now. One chuckling gentlemen, ruddy-faced with a tall had and smoking a long-handled pipe, might have passed for jolly old Mr. Pickwick himself.

Then he began noticing the countenances of the young women; the seemed startlingly more attractive than would have been expected. In fact a far greatly number of them could be called beautiful. Stranger still, most of the women somehow gave the impression, just to gaze upon them, of being virtuous. The often had large eyes which were either sad or kind or both. The young men, he noticed, seemed to be more handsome than would be expected. But then there were other people, both young and old, male and female whose appearance was altogether that of unsavoriness, and these projected an air of distrust, at to Burton; one such fellow, of perhaps young middle-age, passed him on the right. He had long, spiderish limbs and walked in a slightly stooped over fashion suggestive of a sneaking goblin. He had short, spikey red hair and, a cunning, toothsome grin, and small, ferret-like darting eyes.

Why, thought Burton, he could have easily passed for Uriah Heep, the scheming villain of _David Copperfield_.

Maybe that was who he was.

Burton felt a shudder pass through him.

Did ficticious characters truly walk the earth here?

Well, there was one sure way to find out.

He began searching for a newspaper stand where he might locate the latest edition of _Bentley's Miscellany_.

He found one, and purchased the latest copy—he had already brought with him plenty of Victorian money.

He examined the issue. It was marked October of 1839. Dickens should have been finishing up _Nicholas Nickleby_ at this time. But no entry of that story could he locate, nor any story by Dickens, nor any reference to him that he could see. No, wait—

He flipped back a couple of pages. There—

There was Mr. Dickens' name, after all!

But the story was all wrong, or at least he thought, for this date in Dickens' career. _David Copperfield._

Then he looked at the title's printing a bit closer. _The Life and Adventures of Charles Dickens_ was the full title of the work.

David Copperfield was the author!

Burton staggered back, his head swimming. He felt suddenly terribly dizzy.

He examined the page again. It was a lavish title page, framed by a plethora of Cruikshank-like ink-drawings. One depicted a jolly-looking gentleman smoking a long-handled pipe, another a wretched longish-haired young boy scrubbing a floor. The name ''Charles Dickens'' was in larger, bolder letters, so that the letters had jumped out at him first. But there was no mistaking that this was part of the title, _not_ the author's name.

He flipped the page over. This was chapter twenty-thee of the story. The chapter was written in first-person narration, he saw, and was describing the character's horror at the conditions of a shoe-polish factory—

Burton felt something for a moment in his back pocket.

He whirled around, nearly dropping the magazine.

A scraggly street-urchin with thick-matted, probably lice-ridden red hair was dashing away from. Burton did not have a good look at what it was in the boy's left hand that he was holding onto but he noticed a flash of silver-gold metal.

The kid had stolen the tunneler-device!


	4. Chapter 5

6

Vittles and Snerkins sat rigidly at the table in the underground room beneath the antique shop, their eyes wide and saucer-like as they beheld he who emerged from the gloom.

The man who now stood bent and grotesquely hunched before them was more repulsive to behold then either of them had imagined. He had a longish, and misshapen nose with a crooked bridge. His eyes were small, cunning and viperfish, more like the eyes of a rat or serpent than that of a human being, and they appeared to spit black venom as they shifted testily about the shadowed room, before focusing squarely upon the two men. Tufts of scraggly, rat-gray hair stood-up from beneath his coal-black stove-pipe hat. He had a large, jutting chin, and, as he grinned slyly at the two petrified onlookers, they could observe that his teeth were large, yellowish, and nearly of rodentine appearance. The man carried a black cane with a silver-embossed head in the shape of a serpent. He wore a black waist coat over his crooked, slumped figure. He was a small man, a good site under five feet, and made smaller by his condition of, as they could see, his he limped, hideously into the kerosene light, that he was hunchbacked.

He was an altogether hideous personage.

Mr. Snerkins, though he had felt his usual confident self up until entering this misshapen creature's lair, felt his breath lodge in his throat, and found himself unable to speak.

Beside him, Constable Vittles, could, for the moment, neither move nor speak.

The hideous hunchback gave the both of them what passed for a welcoming smile as he settled himself into the chair in front of them. For a moment, he regarded both of them viperishly, his tiny black eyes shooting from one of the two men to the other. At length he spoke.

''Well….so pleased that the two of you are on time. Now, gentlemen, may we get to business?''

Snerkins, whose throat was very dry and scratchy at the moment, managed to speak first. ''We may, certainly,'' he said, his voice quavering. ''Am I correct in assuming that we are in the company of Mr. Zebedias Quigsnip?''

The crooked man smiled, even more broadly this him. It was a most hideous sight, his great, rat-like fangs showing prominently. ''You suppose most correctly sir. I am indeed the one who summoned you here. Quigsnip is my name, good sirs. Zebedias Quigsnip. I assume that you both have heard of me. ''

Vittles certainly had word of this hideous man's notoriety, and he managed to nod.

As for Snerkins, though he had heard of vague rumors that London's criminal underworld was in fact organized into some sort of invisible empire ruled by a mysterious overlord, he couldn't recall having heard the man's name, nor given the entire matter any serious thought, much less dreamed of over coming face to face with this unknown ogre.

Until this moment.

''What…what do you want of us.''

The old man chuckled, a hideous, croaking sound. ''What do I want? Well, it's simple really. I have need of your…rather unorthodox talents, in assisting in a very important operation.''

''You…know about us?'' Bentley Snerkins asked.

''I most certainly do,'' Quigsnip smiled, ''I know all about your covert dealings. You are quite good at them, I must say. I am impressed enough, that I have decided to allow the privilege of carrying out what will be London's crime of crimes.''

Vittles, for one, was growing more frightened by the minute. It was not so much this man's hideous appearance or secretive nature—though the sheer reality of the man's existence had hit home in a most unnerving manner—but the fact that the man already knew of them and their numerous criminal mischiefs, meant that he could also destroy their career with a flick of his wrist, likely even send them to the gallows, if he chose. In short, he likely held the power of life and death over them. The two constables had taken care to conceal any hint of their activities from the Chief Inspector. The fact that this man knew all about them hinted ominously at just how far-reaching the tendrils of his empire must be.

Quigsnip was smiling viperously at them, his rodent teeth hideously displayed, his small black eyes darting from one man to another. ''You see, I believe you two and your talents may be instrumental in achieving my revenge.''

''Revenge?'' Snerkins heard himself croak. ''On whom?''

''Listen, you two, and I will reveal all. The crime I have in mind will benefit you two handsomely, as well as myself. I pay very well, as my associates can testify many times over. Gold and silver, I have aplenty of each. But bulk at service and you will, I promise you, regret you ever heard of me, much less attended this meeting. I have connections—oh, I have connections he like of which you have never imagined.''

Vittles gave an audible gulp, and Snerkins felt the hairs all over his body prickle.

Quigsnip's tiny black orbs shifted again from one man to the other, as though to assure himself of their compliance.

''Very well then,'' the hunchback said, ''to business now.'' He gave a nod to the two men a signal they recognized to press closer to him over the table. And this they did, held fast by the crime-lord's viper-like gaze, as repelled as they were by his grotesque continence.

''Allow me first to tell you two my tale. You ask what this business is, and what manner of revenge I might wish, and upon whom. You might have guessed that a person such as myself has plenty of enemies in and around London. Most I can deal with easily—more easily, I might add, than swatting a few troublesome gnats. But this one individual is beyond my considerable reach, at least for the moment. But only just, thanks to my many machinations, and not for long, thanks to you two. Tell me, gentlemen, are either of you aware of the case of the Fagin gang, two and a half years past?''

''Who hasn't?'' said Snerkins, who by now had recovered some measure of his jovial nature now that he felt that all three of them were now embroiled in a plot of huge proportions. ''But Fagin's gang of young pickpockets were over in Field Lane rookery, a long way from here. I wouldn't imagine he would have been any rival of yours.''

''He was no rival of mine,'' snapped the ill-favored hunchback, ''The Jew Fagin was my most profitable fench. I took in 400 pounds a year because of him. Fagin and his associates all worked directly for me, although they barely spoke of this among themselves. They shunned all contact with me, in fact, except in cases where my presence was required. Oh, I had splendid criminal masterpiece working to grand effect, with that Jew and his ring of burglars and cut-purses. Everyone outside the gang who did know of Fagin's gang supposed that Fagin himself to be the center of operations—the great old grandfather rat, and his gang of scruffy young urchin-thieves. But Fagin himself was no more than the central hub in the splendid clockwork mechanism that I had devised and controlled. I took care to keep up this façade, in case the ring was ever broken, and the members rounded up for the gallows. And good it is for that precaution, as that is precisely what occurred when _he_ showed up. Oh, it was a perfectly functioning masterpiece of thievery—until _he_ came along.''

Here the hunchback stopped and began breathing in and out as though in some suppressed rage. The two men grew frightened, and were on the verge of bolting form their chairs and fleeing in the direction of the twisted staircase and the light of the world above, when the hunchback resumed his story.

''The most clever thief among Fagin's gang, Jack Dawkins by name, found him half-dead from starvation outside of London. Ah, if only he had allowed the brat to starve! But he did not; he took the boy with him back to the Jew, thinking that they might train him up to be the perfect thief. The boy had the most angelic face, you see, and the Dodger—that was what they called Dawkins, because of his cleverness—thought that he'd make the most perfect thief once he was trained. But they couldn't train him! No matter what they did, the boy refused to commit any act of dishonesty. And because of this, a wealthy gentleman ended up taking him in after a pickpocketing was foiled by the boy's refusal to participate. It turned out that this gentleman recognized who this child's parents really were from a portrait of his mother hanging in his house. This child was a workhouse foundling, but as Fortune would allow it, it turned out he was really the ill-gotten offspring of a genteel father and aristocratic mother, whom fate had seen fit to toss into the streets! Had he only never come our way. The gang managed to recapture him, once the rich fellow sent the boy on an errand. But much, much worse was to come! This angel-faced young urchin, you see, had a half-brother, Mr. Edward Leeford, who regularly trading goods with Mr. Fagin and Myself. Much of the acquisitions I received from Mr. Fagin, I acquired through him. It was Mr. Leeford who brought the matter of this boy to my attention. At first I gave the boy no great thought, but when I learned that Mr. Leeford was putting up money to keep the boy hidden and have him corrupted, I had my misgivings. The child refused to be turned into a thief, even though Fagin even beat him severely on one occasion. ''

Here the hunchback paused in his tale. He got up, hobbled away from the two enraptured constables, and disappeared into the shadow-darkened room. The two men looked at each other, each one wondering just how it was that their host was able to find himself around in such utter darkness. But they clearly heard the man opening a cabinet, and taking out a glass and a bottle. Presently, Quigsnip returned into view, and set a tall bottle of fine red wine of superb vintage on the table, along with a small glass goblet. He uncorked the bottle and filled the glass, then took a long hard draught. The two men saw that it was indeed a rare and expensive wine, not the cheap gin that was sold all through London's seedy areas, and noted mentally that this man only reserved the best for himself; Quigsnip did not offer any of the wine to them. But it seemed that the wine had been required to stave off a sudden attack of violent impulse the man was experiencing, and the two constables were somewhat grateful for it.

After four full draughts of the wine, the hunchback again fixed them with his rat-like stare before continuing.

''Then came the day of the burglary. Mr. William Sikes, another adult member of Fagin's gang, needed the boy to help him rob a large house in the country. On the way there they made a rendezvous with Toby Crackit, a gang member who was staying at a house I put up for the gang's use. But the robbery went terribly afoul. Sikes put the boy through the window, but the butler appeared and shot the whelp in the arm. The thieves drug him back out the window, but they were forced to abandon him on the road, the boy had lost so much blood. Would that he had lost every pint! But nay—he not only survived, but some managed to stagger back to the house in spite of his condition. The simpering people there took care of him, bandaged his arm, saved his life. And the young Miss who lived there turned out to be the boy's blooded aunt on his mother's side. Anyway, after the ill-fated robbery attempt, we did not yet know if the boy had lived or died, or his whereabouts for certain. Realizing that the matter was now out of our hands, and that the boy was a possible threat to us all, I took the situation into my own hands. First, I made certain that the house where Sikes and the boy had met up with Toby Crackit was given a complete makeover. I drove to Chertsey myself, and stayed at the house for a month, during which time I kept up with the gang, and attempted to determine the fate of the boy. I soon learned that he had _not_ perished of blood-loss, as I had hoped. What actually had befallen him remained a mystery. That is, until I happened to chance upon him by accident. Or rather, he and I met face to face. It was the doctor, a physician named Losberne, the very man who was working for the Maylie family at the time, and who had been instrumental in saving the boy's life, who rapped at my door that day. He made mention of Sikes, and I knew at once, that the boy was very much alive, and was well enough to have peached on the gang. Losberne, of course, seeing that house no longer could have answered to the boy's description, left well enough alone. But when I followed him out to the carriage, I saw him. The boy, I mean. I saw the whelp's face in the carriage window. Merely a glimpse, mind you. But that was all I needed, and more than enough. It was him. Oh, I knew it was him. Here was the lad I had heard about for months, and who was even now threatening my entire operation. I remember it as though it had happened merely yesterday eve. Oh, that face! He possessed a most angelic countenance, surely enough. That angelic face peering out fearfully from the carriage window. The very sight of that boy's face propelled me into such an incoherent rage, that I began to shout and stomp, and tear my at my hair in unbridled fury. I continued to vent out my rage, until the carriage and driven away and passed over a hill. That was the first last, and only time that I ever _saw_ that workhouse whelp. But, oh, the hatred that sight has invested in me. I _will_ have my revenge upon him! I _will!''_

Here, Mr. Quigsnip seemed unable to commence his narrative without another swig of wine, which he took unreservedly. Then he sat there, breathing in and out like some terrible troll, which he very much resembled.

''You said this boy ruined your entire operation—''Snerkins ventured.

Quigsnip was abruptly very much alive and alert. '_'Most certainly he did!_ After I alerted the gang that the boy was very much alive, Leeford and the Jew ascertained that he was living with the Maylies in the house Sikes had intended to rob. Leeford, or Monks as he was called, put up money to have the boy killed, but he was a betrayed by another gang member—a female gang member who had fallen in love with the boy's angelic appearance. The rest is not pretty, but I will brief you. This girl was murdered by Sikes, who in turned went mad and ended up hanging himself by accident. The constables had no trouble rounding up the rest of the gang after that. Fagin himself was arrested shortly afterward, and sent to the gallows. In short, my entire operation fell apart, one pillar toppling the next, until the entirety of it came crashing down. All of it on the account of that blond-haired, angel-faced whelp, whom I determine will die a terrible death!''

The two men were left shaken and silent, in awe of the murderous rage which the crime-lord harbored for the blond workhouse urchin. They were silent for several moments, while Quigsnip filled his glass once more, and took another lengthy draught of the wine.

''Well,'' James Vittles said, ''we've certainly heard of the case of Oliver—''

He was on the verge of saying the name, ''Twist,'' when the humpback man rose up out of his chair with remarkable speed for his misshapen appearance, and with fearsome strength, seized the wooden table and flung it over, sending the wine bottle and glass to shatter on the floor. The bottle shattered with a resounding crash, spilling the blood-red liquid in a crimson stain. The hideous crime-lord rushed forward in a burst of animalistic swiftness.

The constables shouted in fright, and retreated, their chairs tumbling over. But Quigsnip proved savagely fast, as his spindly yet strong fingers, armed with claw-like nails encircled the throat of James Vittles, and through him back against the far wall.

Snerkins backed up, eyes wide, and began screaming.

Vittles found himself staring directly into the small hideous orbs of London's crime-lord, which seemed to blaze with dark fire, Quigsnip's horrible visage inches from his own.

''_Never, never, mention THAT name to me!''_ the hunchback raged. ''Say it once more in my presence and I will kill you myself!''

He continued to strangle the hapless constable, and Vittles fear for an instant, that the man truly was about to kill him. But then just as abruptly as his attack had been, Quigsnip released his hold, and resumed his genteel manner.

Vittles collapsed to the floor, gasping. Snerkins stopped screaming and went to help his friend up.

''I cannot,'' warned Quigsnip, ''have any insubordination either. I have the power to expose the both of you. Do you each understand?''

They both nodded.

''Now get to your feet. We have further business to discuss. ''

They went back to the table, which Quigsnip, whose rage had now deserted him utterly, promptly righted. The hunchback seated himself as before, and glared intently once more at the men, who tremblingly, righted their chairs, and sat down.

''As I said, I have plenty of pounds for each of you. I can also make you both esteemed gentlemen, far better than your current positions would have it. What I need you for is this….''


	5. Chapter 7

6

Vittles and Snerkins sat rigidly at the table in the underground room beneath the antique shop, their eyes wide and saucer-like as they beheld he who emerged from the gloom.

The man who now stood bent and grotesquely hunched before them was more repulsive to behold then either of them had imagined. He had a longish, and misshapen nose with a crooked bridge. His eyes were small, cunning and viperfish, more like the eyes of a rat or serpent than that of a human being, and they appeared to spit black venom as they shifted testily about the shadowed room, before focusing squarely upon the two men. Tufts of scraggly, rat-gray hair stood-up from beneath his coal-black stove-pipe hat. He had a large, jutting chin, and, as he grinned slyly at the two petrified onlookers, they could observe that his teeth were large, yellowish, and nearly of rodentine appearance. The man carried a black cane with a silver-embossed head in the shape of a serpent. He wore a black waist coat over his crooked, slumped figure. He was a small man, a good site under five feet, and made smaller by his condition of, as they could see, his he limped, hideously into the kerosene light, that he was hunchbacked.

He was an altogether hideous personage.

Mr. Snerkins, though he had felt his usual confident self up until entering this misshapen creature's lair, felt his breath lodge in his throat, and found himself unable to speak.

Beside him, Constable Vittles, could, for the moment, neither move nor speak.

The hideous hunchback gave the both of them what passed for a welcoming smile as he settled himself into the chair in front of them. For a moment, he regarded both of them viperishly, his tiny black eyes shooting from one of the two men to the other. At length he spoke.

''Well….so pleased that the two of you are on time. Now, gentlemen, may we get to business?''

Snerkins, whose throat was very dry and scratchy at the moment, managed to speak first. ''We may, certainly,'' he said, his voice quavering. ''Am I correct in assuming that we are in the company of Mr. Zebedias Quigsnip?''

The crooked man smiled, even more broadly this him. It was a most hideous sight, his great, rat-like fangs showing prominently. ''You suppose most correctly sir. I am indeed the one who summoned you here. Quigsnip is my name, good sirs. Zebedias Quigsnip. I assume that you both have heard of me. ''

Vittles certainly had word of this hideous man's notoriety, and he managed to nod.

As for Snerkins, though he had heard of vague rumors that London's criminal underworld was in fact organized into some sort of invisible empire ruled by a mysterious overlord, he couldn't recall having heard the man's name, nor given the entire matter any serious thought, much less dreamed of over coming face to face with this unknown ogre.

Until this moment.

''What…what do you want of us.''

The old man chuckled, a hideous, croaking sound. ''What do I want? Well, it's simple really. I have need of your…rather unorthodox talents, in assisting in a very important operation.''

''You…know about us?'' Bentley Snerkins asked.

''I most certainly do,'' Quigsnip smiled, ''I know all about your covert dealings. You are quite good at them, I must say. I am impressed enough, that I have decided to allow the privilege of carrying out what will be London's crime of crimes.''

Vittles, for one, was growing more frightened by the minute. It was not so much this man's hideous appearance or secretive nature—though the sheer reality of the man's existence had hit home in a most unnerving manner—but the fact that the man already knew of them and their numerous criminal mischiefs, meant that he could also destroy their career with a flick of his wrist, likely even send them to the gallows, if he chose. In short, he likely held the power of life and death over them. The two constables had taken care to conceal any hint of their activities from the Chief Inspector. The fact that this man knew all about them hinted ominously at just how far-reaching the tendrils of his empire must be.

Quigsnip was smiling viperously at them, his rodent teeth hideously displayed, his small black eyes darting from one man to another. ''You see, I believe you two and your talents may be instrumental in achieving my revenge.''

''Revenge?'' Snerkins heard himself croak. ''On whom?''

''Listen, you two, and I will reveal all. The crime I have in mind will benefit you two handsomely, as well as myself. I pay very well, as my associates can testify many times over. Gold and silver, I have aplenty of each. But bulk at service and you will, I promise you, regret you ever heard of me, much less attended this meeting. I have connections—oh, I have connections he like of which you have never imagined.''

Vittles gave an audible gulp, and Snerkins felt the hairs all over his body prickle.

Quigsnip's tiny black orbs shifted again from one man to the other, as though to assure himself of their compliance.

''Very well then,'' the hunchback said, ''to business now.'' He gave a nod to the two men a signal they recognized to press closer to him over the table. And this they did, held fast by the crime-lord's viper-like gaze, as repelled as they were by his grotesque continence.

''Allow me first to tell you two my tale. You ask what this business is, and what manner of revenge I might wish, and upon whom. You might have guessed that a person such as myself has plenty of enemies in and around London. Most I can deal with easily—more easily, I might add, than swatting a few troublesome gnats. But this one individual is beyond my considerable reach, at least for the moment. But only just, thanks to my many machinations, and not for long, thanks to you two. Tell me, gentlemen, are either of you aware of the case of the Fagin gang, two and a half years past?''

''Who hasn't?'' said Snerkins, who by now had recovered some measure of his jovial nature now that he felt that all three of them were now embroiled in a plot of huge proportions. ''But Fagin's gang of young pickpockets were over in Field Lane rookery, a long way from here. I wouldn't imagine he would have been any rival of yours.''

''He was no rival of mine,'' snapped the ill-favored hunchback, ''The Jew Fagin was my most profitable fench. I took in 400 pounds a year because of him. Fagin and his associates all worked directly for me, although they barely spoke of this among themselves. They shunned all contact with me, in fact, except in cases where my presence was required. Oh, I had splendid criminal masterpiece working to grand effect, with that Jew and his ring of burglars and cut-purses. Everyone outside the gang who did know of Fagin's gang supposed that Fagin himself to be the center of operations—the great old grandfather rat, and his gang of scruffy young urchin-thieves. But Fagin himself was no more than the central hub in the splendid clockwork mechanism that I had devised and controlled. I took care to keep up this façade, in case the ring was ever broken, and the members rounded up for the gallows. And good it is for that precaution, as that is precisely what occurred when _he_ showed up. Oh, it was a perfectly functioning masterpiece of thievery—until _he_ came along.''

Here the hunchback stopped and began breathing in and out as though in some suppressed rage. The two men grew frightened, and were on the verge of bolting form their chairs and fleeing in the direction of the twisted staircase and the light of the world above, when the hunchback resumed his story.

''The most clever thief among Fagin's gang, Jack Dawkins by name, found him half-dead from starvation outside of London. Ah, if only he had allowed the brat to starve! But he did not; he took the boy with him back to the Jew, thinking that they might train him up to be the perfect thief. The boy had the most angelic face, you see, and the Dodger—that was what they called Dawkins, because of his cleverness—thought that he'd make the most perfect thief once he was trained. But they couldn't train him! No matter what they did, the boy refused to commit any act of dishonesty. And because of this, a wealthy gentleman ended up taking him in after a pickpocketing was foiled by the boy's refusal to participate. It turned out that this gentleman recognized who this child's parents really were from a portrait of his mother hanging in his house. This child was a workhouse foundling, but as Fortune would allow it, it turned out he was really the ill-gotten offspring of a genteel father and aristocratic mother, whom fate had seen fit to toss into the streets! Had he only never come our way. The gang managed to recapture him, once the rich fellow sent the boy on an errand. But much, much worse was to come! This angel-faced young urchin, you see, had a half-brother, Mr. Edward Leeford, who regularly trading goods with Mr. Fagin and Myself. Much of the acquisitions I received from Mr. Fagin, I acquired through him. It was Mr. Leeford who brought the matter of this boy to my attention. At first I gave the boy no great thought, but when I learned that Mr. Leeford was putting up money to keep the boy hidden and have him corrupted, I had my misgivings. The child refused to be turned into a thief, even though Fagin even beat him severely on one occasion. ''

Here the hunchback paused in his tale. He got up, hobbled away from the two enraptured constables, and disappeared into the shadow-darkened room. The two men looked at each other, each one wondering just how it was that their host was able to find himself around in such utter darkness. But they clearly heard the man opening a cabinet, and taking out a glass and a bottle. Presently, Quigsnip returned into view, and set a tall bottle of fine red wine of superb vintage on the table, along with a small glass goblet. He uncorked the bottle and filled the glass, then took a long hard draught. The two men saw that it was indeed a rare and expensive wine, not the cheap gin that was sold all through London's seedy areas, and noted mentally that this man only reserved the best for himself; Quigsnip did not offer any of the wine to them. But it seemed that the wine had been required to stave off a sudden attack of violent impulse the man was experiencing, and the two constables were somewhat grateful for it.

After four full draughts of the wine, the hunchback again fixed them with his rat-like stare before continuing.

''Then came the day of the burglary. Mr. William Sikes, another adult member of Fagin's gang, needed the boy to help him rob a large house in the country. On the way there they made a rendezvous with Toby Crackit, a gang member who was staying at a house I put up for the gang's use. But the robbery went terribly afoul. Sikes put the boy through the window, but the butler appeared and shot the whelp in the arm. The thieves drug him back out the window, but they were forced to abandon him on the road, the boy had lost so much blood. Would that he had lost every pint! But nay—he not only survived, but some managed to stagger back to the house in spite of his condition. The simpering people there took care of him, bandaged his arm, saved his life. And the young Miss who lived there turned out to be the boy's blooded aunt on his mother's side. Anyway, after the ill-fated robbery attempt, we did not yet know if the boy had lived or died, or his whereabouts for certain. Realizing that the matter was now out of our hands, and that the boy was a possible threat to us all, I took the situation into my own hands. First, I made certain that the house where Sikes and the boy had met up with Toby Crackit was given a complete makeover. I drove to Chertsey myself, and stayed at the house for a month, during which time I kept up with the gang, and attempted to determine the fate of the boy. I soon learned that he had _not_ perished of blood-loss, as I had hoped. What actually had befallen him remained a mystery. That is, until I happened to chance upon him by accident. Or rather, he and I met face to face. It was the doctor, a physician named Losberne, the very man who was working for the Maylie family at the time, and who had been instrumental in saving the boy's life, who rapped at my door that day. He made mention of Sikes, and I knew at once, that the boy was very much alive, and was well enough to have peached on the gang. Losberne, of course, seeing that house no longer could have answered to the boy's description, left well enough alone. But when I followed him out to the carriage, I saw him. The boy, I mean. I saw the whelp's face in the carriage window. Merely a glimpse, mind you. But that was all I needed, and more than enough. It was him. Oh, I knew it was him. Here was the lad I had heard about for months, and who was even now threatening my entire operation. I remember it as though it had happened merely yesterday eve. Oh, that face! He possessed a most angelic countenance, surely enough. That angelic face peering out fearfully from the carriage window. The very sight of that boy's face propelled me into such an incoherent rage, that I began to shout and stomp, and tear my at my hair in unbridled fury. I continued to vent out my rage, until the carriage and driven away and passed over a hill. That was the first last, and only time that I ever _saw_ that workhouse whelp. But, oh, the hatred that sight has invested in me. I _will_ have my revenge upon him! I _will!''_

Here, Mr. Quigsnip seemed unable to commence his narrative without another swig of wine, which he took unreservedly. Then he sat there, breathing in and out like some terrible troll, which he very much resembled.

''You said this boy ruined your entire operation—''Snerkins ventured.

Quigsnip was abruptly very much alive and alert. '_'Most certainly he did!_ After I alerted the gang that the boy was very much alive, Leeford and the Jew ascertained that he was living with the Maylies in the house Sikes had intended to rob. Leeford, or Monks as he was called, put up money to have the boy killed, but he was a betrayed by another gang member—a female gang member who had fallen in love with the boy's angelic appearance. The rest is not pretty, but I will brief you. This girl was murdered by Sikes, who in turned went mad and ended up hanging himself by accident. The constables had no trouble rounding up the rest of the gang after that. Fagin himself was arrested shortly afterward, and sent to the gallows. In short, my entire operation fell apart, one pillar toppling the next, until the entirety of it came crashing down. All of it on the account of that blond-haired, angel-faced whelp, whom I determine will die a terrible death!''

The two men were left shaken and silent, in awe of the murderous rage which the crime-lord harbored for the blond workhouse urchin. They were silent for several moments, while Quigsnip filled his glass once more, and took another lengthy draught of the wine.

''Well,'' James Vittles said, ''we've certainly heard of the case of Oliver—''

He was on the verge of saying the name, ''Twist,'' when the humpback man rose up out of his chair with remarkable speed for his misshapen appearance, and with fearsome strength, seized the wooden table and flung it over, sending the wine bottle and glass to shatter on the floor. The bottle shattered with a resounding crash, spilling the blood-red liquid in a crimson stain. The hideous crime-lord rushed forward in a burst of animalistic swiftness.

The constables shouted in fright, and retreated, their chairs tumbling over. But Quigsnip proved savagely fast, as his spindly yet strong fingers, armed with claw-like nails encircled the throat of James Vittles, and through him back against the far wall.

Snerkins backed up, eyes wide, and began screaming.

Vittles found himself staring directly into the small hideous orbs of London's crime-lord, which seemed to blaze with dark fire, Quigsnip's horrible visage inches from his own.

''_Never, never, mention THAT name to me!''_ the hunchback raged. ''Say it once more in my presence and I will kill you myself!''

He continued to strangle the hapless constable, and Vittles fear for an instant, that the man truly was about to kill him. But then just as abruptly as his attack had been, Quigsnip released his hold, and resumed his genteel manner.

Vittles collapsed to the floor, gasping. Snerkins stopped screaming and went to help his friend up.

''I cannot,'' warned Quigsnip, ''have any insubordination either. I have the power to expose the both of you. Do you each understand?''

They both nodded.

''Now get to your feet. We have further business to discuss. ''

They went back to the table, which Quigsnip, whose rage had now deserted him utterly, promptly righted. The hunchback seated himself as before, and glared intently once more at the men, who tremblingly, righted their chairs, and sat down.

''As I said, I have plenty of pounds for each of you. I can also make you both esteemed gentlemen, far better than your current positions would have it. What I need you for is this….''


	6. Chapter 8

7

A few more days passed at Brownlow's house. Oliver and Rose had a grand time with each other, and they spent the afternoons on excursions into the countryside. These times, they stayed clear of any sad and somber locales; Oliver had had enough of those, and he did not care to repeat running into Mr. Thomas Flickart again, after the last incident with. Neither did he care to run into his uncle again, even though the man had been kind.

After three days following that incident, however, something curious happened.

It was just after tea-time, and they all been in the drawing room discussing a possible excursion to the coast, when Oliver heard the lid of the metal mailbox outside the front door flip up and then close. He knew that the mail-carrier had left them something.

The boy got up and headed for the door. From the box he retrieved three letters. Two of them appeared to be business letters and were addressed to his guardian; the third was of expensive-looking cream-colored paper. In elaborate, curly-cue, calligraphic penmanship, it was written:

To Master Oliver Twist,

62 Greenlawn Road

Oliver turned the letter over, to find that it been given a very costly-looking wax seal. Whoever had taken such fine care in preparing this especially for him?

He carefully peeled back the seal, and removed the letter. It was printed the same sort of expensive, cream-colored paper as the envelope. Someone had written in ink-quill:

Dear Master Oliver,

You are most cordially invited to attend Lord Wilshire's annual Evening Party and Grand Ball on October 5th. Bring any and all of the relatives and acquaintances that you like.

Your Uncle,

Peter Fleming

Lord Wilshire

Oliver was unsure how to react. He hadn't wanted to return to his uncle's estate, not so soon after the incident with Mr. Flickart. But he certainly didn't want to disappoint Lord Peter after his kind offer to him.

''Rose! Mr. Brownlow! Look at this!'' he cried, running through the drawing room to show them.

Rose looked up from her sewing in alarm as an excited Oliver burst into the room carrying the letter. ''Look, Rose, look what I just got in the mail!''

Rose took the letter and read it. ''October fifth? Why, that's three days away. And we were planning on seeing the coast. This is on such short notice.''

''You mean…we're not going?'' Oliver felt a bit let down suddenly. He realized that he might want to see his uncle again rather more than he at first realized.

''Well, dear,'' she said, ''I think that should be up to you dear,''

''He's your uncle too, you know,'' Oliver reminded her.

''But you're the reason for this invite. You and no one else. You realize that. And I thought you did not want to accept his offer. ''

''It's only that I wouldn't want to leave Mr. Brownlow. He's been my guardian for so long. And you too, Rose. I wouldn't get to see you as much. And Harry said you're too settled to come live with me at his Peter's estate.''

''We could still visit, I am sure,'' Rose told her nephew.

''But Mr. Brownlow…if he came to live with me, he'd have to sell his house. I wouldn't want that.''

''So maybe we'll just send him a polite refusal. That's what we should do…''

''No, Rose! I don't want to refuse him yet. I'm not sure.''

''Then you had best make up your mind, my boy,'' said Mr. Brownlow, who had just entered the room.

Oliver whirled around, ''Oh, if I could be sure! I do like Lord Peter, and his house. And I really don't want to disappoint him.''

''Then perhaps you should accept, Oliver,'' Mr. Brownlow told him.

''You don't…want me to leave here, do you!''

''No, but you must remember that we still haven't decided on your education. Your uncle may have provided a way out for us. He and I could make arrangements for you to be educated at his estate. You could still live here.''

''But George,'' Rose said, ''Peter wants to adopt Oliver, not just provide his education. He wants to give him his title and his land.''

''As I said, Oliver needs to decide those things on his own,'' said Brownlow, ''But I do believe, my boy that it is probably for the best that we attend this party of his. Don't feel pressured, just treat as though it is a family gathering.''

Oliver thought about that. Yes, he decided, that is what he should do. Even if his uncle was attempting to put pressure on him, he was still his uncle, and not attending the party would not be civil.

''I accept then,'' said Oliver. He rather hoped they wouldn't run into Flickart again, though.

''I think then,'' said Mr. Brownlow, ''That we should begin making preparations.''

The next three days were filled with activity, as the Brownlow household prepared for their excursion to the grand ball on the Wilshire estate. Brownlow took Rose and Oliver into London, where they spent the afternoon shopping for clothes that might be appropriate for such a celebration. Mrs. Bedwin, and Mr. Sowyer spent much time in the kitchen, preparing foods that they planned to take to the banquet. Giles, Brittles, and the other servants planned to attend as well, and even to bring their own families if they could.

Then, on the morning of the fifth, as they were making their final preparation, there came a knock on the from door. Mrs. Bedwin opened it.

On the front porch stood two constables.

They were both young-looking gentlemen, each handsome, perhaps in their early twenties, obviously recent additions to Scotland Yard. One appeared to be slightly older than his companion, had dark, tightly curled hair and a mustache. The other had short-cropped reddish hair, and had a slightly roguish look about him, even though he was a uniformed officer of the Law.

"Good morning, sirs!''

''And a good morning to you, ma'am. May we speak to the master of the house.''

''Why, of course. Is there anything the matter?''

''Oh, no ma'am, except that the police were informed today that your family is planning to attend Lord Wilshire's grand party this evening.''

''We are, indeed. Though I am not sure how that calls for police work. But come on in, fine sirs, and make yourselves welcome. ''

She smiled at the two young men, and led then into the drawing room. She bade them to sit down in two comfortably upholstered chairs, which they did, and told them to wait while she fetched the master. ''May I get you some tea as well?''

''Yes, please,'' one of the two young men, who sported a mustache said. ''Make it brewed hot, ma'am, if you please.''

''And have spices and nutmeg in mine,''said the other.

''As you wish,''she told them and left the room.

A few minutes later Mr. Brownlow entered the drawing room. ''What may do for you gentlemen? Is there anything in particular that brings you here?'' The old gentleman thought momentarily of the incident which Oliver had described, when Flickart, the constable Lord Peter had hired, had attempted to force information out of him. Was there any connection here?

''I am Constable Snerkins,'' the mustached officer said, ''And this is officer Vittles.''

The reddish-haired, roguish-looking constable nodded his affirmation.

''We're here to inform you that Constable Flickart, who has been assigned by his Lordship, Peter Fleming, is very concerned about the boy's safety.''

Ah, Brownlow, thought, so there is a connection. These men must have been assigned to the very case that Flickart seemed to be so obsessed with. And that man he suspected was behind it—what was his name? Quigsnip. Yes, that had been it. Could Oliver himself be in danger—again? Brownlow didn't think so. Monks was the only one still alive who had grudge against the boy. What connection this mysterious Quigsnip might possibly have to Oliver was a mystery.

And yet…

''Actually," Snerkins was saying, as Brownlow settled himself into a chair opposite them, ''about the safety of this entire family. Any of his blood-relatives or guardians—and that's you—might have reason to beware. You see, Quigsnip is the man Flickart suspects of being behind maybe most of the major gangs in London. He has not been able to prove it, mind you, but most of the trails of stolen goods appear to lead to him. We've met absolute dead-ends, however, when it comes to _proving_ his involvement in criminal dealing. He-or whoever it is—covers his tracks too well. And, I might add, the Fagin gang trafficked many of the wares tracable to him. That means that the boy Oliver Twist cost Mr. Quigsnip, potentially at least, perhaps hundreds of pounds of damage.''

''I see,'' said Brownlow. ''So you wish to accompany us to see that Oliver isn't threatened.''

"Yes, that is correct."

''Very well,'' Brownlow said at last, ''If you think our home is truly in danger, then I m grateful to you both.''

Just then, Mrs. Bedwin entered, carrying the tea tray.

''A wise decision,'' Vittles told Brownlow as he took his cup of tea and sipped it gingerly. Snerkins did the same, and both men smiled at Mrs. Bedwin.

They spent the next few minutes in pleasant conversation about the local news and weather.

Then Oliver suddenly entered the drawing room. The boy gasped at seeing the two constables seated there, comfortably sipping their tea.

Both of the uniformed sirs looked up, friendly as ever, smiles on their faces. ''Why, greetings, young Twist,'' Snerkins said.

''Hallo,'' said Vittless.

''No cause for alarm, young sir,'' Snerkins assured the boy, ''We're only here to make certain you're well. And that this lovely house of yours isn't robbed while you're visiting you uncle.''

''Please, to meet you sirs,'' said Oliver, bowing respectfully before the two grownups. He hoped his sudden apprehension hadn't made him appear rude.

''And very glad we are to make your acquaintance too, young sir,'' Vittles responded, grinning at the boy.

''Yes, LOV-E-LY,'' said Snerkins.

There was something about that grin, though the man obviously intended himself to appear friendly, that put the boy ill-at-ease. I t was a little too wide, showed too many teeth. At least, that was what Oliver decided.

The men turned back to the boy's guardian. ''Well, we bid you all a safe journey, and hope you enjoy your time at his lordship's party.''

''Yes,'' said Vittles. ''I'm wish we could attend ourselves.''

''Ah, but the call of duty beckons, eh, Vittles? We'll be going now, thank you sir,'' Snerkins said to Mr. Brownlow,'' But we'll return at six.'' He placed the now empty teacup on the plate and laid these on the coffee table Vittles did the same. The men rose from their chairs.

''Very well, gentlemen,'' Brownlow said, ''I'll see you at the ball.''


	7. Chapter 9

8

Jack Burton chased after the kid, but the boy proved terribly fast.

After all, the kid had doubtless been born and raised in these twisting corridors and cobblestone alleyways, where nature had selected the swiftest and most cunning. It was everything Jack could do to keep up with him, weaving in and out of the milling crowds, almost unobtrusively. Jack could barely keep him in sight, but he dashed after him, realizing as he did just how vital the piece of equipment was to his return. He nearly collided with a couple of people as made his around and through the crowds as swiftly as he could, straining to keep up with his object of pursuit.

He barely had time to glimpse the kid duck and swerve into an alleyway. When he reached it, Jack dashed into the alley in pursuit. He gasped-for the kid had seemingly vanished. In a near-panic, Jack scanned around for a side-alley—or anywhere that the kid might have disappeared into unobtrusively, but he saw nothing. Then he saw a narrow doorway to the right of him, possibly leading into an seemingly abandoned building.

Jack dashed into it, then paused. For an instant, he was struck by the thought that the boy had perhaps led him here on purpose to lure him into a trap. He glanced around furtively, fearing to see shadows lurking in the darkness, perhaps of adults waiting to spring upon with cudgels and knives, or even a swarm of other urchins, who could possibly overwhelm an adult man with their numbers.

But there was nothing. No shapes lurked in the shadows, not a sound issued anywhere.

No—wait.

Though all had been silent before, distantly he heard the patter of footfalls on wooden stairs somewhere far above him. Jack lost no time in rushing up the flight of creaky wooden stairs which led upward to who-knew-where. He flew up the stairs two or more at a time, determined not to lose his prey, yet cautioning himself to remain wary lest a trap be sprung. He ran up and up, passing three separate floors with rooms whose wooden doors appeared tightly shut and festooned with cobwebs. The distant footfalls still sounded from above him, and he continued his pursuit until he burst out of a trapdoor in the ceiling, and climbed out onto the roof.

There a few feet away from him at the very edge of the building's perimeter, stood the scraggly, red-haired boy.

"Stop, mister!" the boy cried.

Jack halted in his tracks. His first thought was that the kid was threatening to throw himself off the building, and into the street below; then he saw that the kid was stretching his right arm over the side. And clutched tightly in his small hand was the tunneler.

Jack ventured a step forward.

"Stop!" cried the kid. "Or I'll throw it!"

"Now, kid, you don't want to do that," said Jack, trying to talk calmly. For the first time, he noticed that the child looked genuinely scared. Why? He couldn't begin to guess, but maybe the kid hadn't stolen the tunneler with the intention to pawn it for profit, or hand it over to some adult fence for the same purpose, as had been his first thought. Maybe the boy had intentionally led him here for some reason.

"Now just calm down, son." Jack said, as soothingly as he could. "Who are you, kiddo, and what do you want with my tunneler?"

The boy looked frightened and confused. "I…I….You can't have it!"

"I'm sorry, but it's mine, son. I've caught you and you have to give it to me. You don't know what that thing is. Believe me when I tell you I don't think you can sell it for anything much. But I need it get back to my home." He stretched forth his hand in request.

The boy continued to stare at him with wide, trembling eyes. Then two large tears leaked out of the boy's eyes. He handed over the tunneler, depositing it in Jack's palm.

Jack took a good look at the kid. He was wearing a thin shirt and pants that were literally sewn together patchwork. A tattery scarf of frayed wool, striped a faded yellow and red, was wound his neck. His green eyes were large and watery, his features small, his nose a small button, his expressive mouth turned slightly up at the corners. He was very pale, partly due to his complexion, being a redhead, but Jack that it also might be more than just that. A light smattering of freckles were dotted across his nose and cheeks. His wild, longish red hair stuck out at odd angles underneath an urchin's cap.

Jack's intent upon catching the kid had been to shake the liver out of him until he handed back the device, but now he was sorry to have had that thought. He had no idea why the kid had taken it, but perhaps some cruel adult figure had put him up to it.

"What's your name, boy?" he asked. "And why did you take my tunneler device?"

"Jacob," the boy said. "Jacob Taggle. I took your thing because…I" here the boy broke down and began crying.

"Easy, Jacob," said Jack trying to be comforting. He placed his hands on the boy's shoulders.

Quick as a flash, the street boy made a grab for the tunneler. But Jack had anticipated this move, and was quicker. He seized Jacob by his wrist. The boy tried to twist out of the grasp, but Jack held him fast. "Now, hold on son! Tell me why you want the tunneler!"

He saw that the kid's face was tearing again, and he felt pit for him. Apparently the tears were genuine, but he wasn't about to let his guard down with this kid, not even for a second. Even when Jacob Taggle—if that were truly his name—finally broke down and began to sob, he took a cautious step back.

"Tell me why, son." Jack said calmly.

"I need it," James told him. "I need it to save my mum, an' my little sister. A man told me to steal it for him, or he'll hurt them!"

"Someone threatened your family for _this?"_ Jack said, indicating his tunneler.

Jacob nodded.

Jack noted how and thin the boy looked. He also noted that, although the kid had enough energy and cunning to outrun him and dart through the crowd, a more experienced urchin probably wouldn't have allowed himself to be cornered as swiftly as this one had.

"Look, kiddo," Jack said, trying to sound assuring. "You look like you could use a hot meal. You hungry?"

The boy nodded vigorously

"Let's say I buy you one. Then you can tell me all about what happened."

He took Jacob by the shoulder, and together they made their way back through the deserted building to the street. He took Jacob to a pub on a street corner. He paid for a glass of cheap ale for himself, and roast beef sandwich with a wedge of sharp cheese on top for the boy. Jacob gratefully tore into the sandwich.

Jack reminded the kid to take his time with it. "It will last longer," he said. "Just tell me what happened, starting with who threatened your family."

Jack was surprised to learn that Jacob had not always been the ragged street urchin he was now. He had come from a fairly affluent family. His father had been a prosperous tradesmen who had amassed enough wealth that they were just below the bourgeois. But his father had run into debt, and been sent to Newgate—a fate that reminded Jack rather of Charles Dickens. But Jacob's father 's situation was a bit different. He had had some valuable property stolen from him. Some thieves had stolen it, then someone—the thieves apparently—had attempted to blackmail the man. When he had refused to pay, he was arrested. And Jacob, his mother and his little sister had been forced into an apartment in the slums. His mum had taken a job serving drinks in one of the seedier pubs and he was forced to steal occasionally from the food markets in order for them to survive. Fortunately, little Jacob had learned the ways of the streets quickly, and had not been caught—until now.

"But why would they arrest him? If it were thieves who stole from him in the first place."

"They broke in our home in the night, and stole ninety pounds worth of stuff," Jacob said, "But the man who black mailed us—my father knew him, he was a thief, awright. But 'ee were a gentleman, too. Nobody would believe us, when my father told 'em it was 'is men who robbed us in the first place."

"Well….who is this man?"

Jacob cringed back slightly at these words. The boy looked about the pub, at the adults sitting or standing around, engaged on conversation, eating or drinking. As no one seemed to be paying any heed, Jacob, still chewing his sandwich ravenously, continued. "Ee's a respectable bloke, like I said. Iz name's Quigsnip. Zebediah Quigsnip. Ever 'eard of 'im?"

"I can't say that I have," Jack told the boy. But I'm not from London, I'm afraid.

"Mr. Quigsnip is gentleman, but he runs most of crime in the city. That's what my dad told me. 'An Mr. Quigsnip, 'ee said he caught the thieves and offered to return my father's stuff. My father refused because he knew what Mr. Quigsnip was really up to, and refused to play along. So's Mr. Quigsnip claimed he owed my father money." Tears leaked out of Jacob's eyes again. Jack placed one hand on the boy's shoulder to comfort him. "Easy lad, I'll do what I can to help you. Understand?"

Jacob nodded.

"Now," Jack Burton said, looking intently at the boy, "Tell me—was it this man—this Quigsnip—who sent you after my tunneler?" He had a sneaking suspicion that it was.

"No!" said Jacob. "It was someone else. But—I'd wager 'ee might have been in league with 'im! "

"Who was he, then?"

"I don't know. I met him one night when I was coming home. It was about dusk. I'd been looking for someone who might take me in for a trade. No one did—but I managed to flitch five good apples from a cart on my way home!" The boy suddenly looked frightened, then, at what he'd just admitted.

"Go on," Jack said. "I won't peach on you, I promise."

"I had almost reached my house when I saw a tall shadow there under a lamppost. He was a tall gentleman—frightfully tall, and he frightened me a little. I almost ran—meaning to circle around on my way home. But he came toward me, 'an, 'an-"the boy lay his sandwich down and began to sob. "Oh, 'ee weren't _human_, 'ee weren't."

"Jacob—"

The boy had lad his head down on his arms and was crying. Jack noticed some of the patrons had starting stealing glances their way. Nothing suspicious yet, but Jack was anxious to calm the kid before he drew too much attention. He shook the boy. "Easy kid. I'm here. Go on, tell me the rest. What did this man look like that frightened you?"

Jacob looked Jack square in the eyes, his freckled face streaked with tears. "This man. Oh, his skin was white, it was. White like a graveyard corpse. And 'iz eyes—they glowed _red _they did. 'An 'iz teeth, they were sharp—sharp like scriven nails!"

Jack continued to stare at Jacob, listening with mounting wonder. _The Grinning Man._ Yes, it had to have been him.

"Ee was all wrapped up in a black cloak. Like some 'ol vampire out of the old times 'ee was. They says 'ol Quigsnip himself may be a vampire—he nary comes out during the day, sos maybe he is. But this man, he knows my name, calls me "Jake Taggle." Yeh, sos he does. 'An I says, "Yeh, that's my name. 'An he says he wants to steal something fer 'im. 'An 'ee, grinned at me, ee did! Ee grinned!—"

"_Jake Taggle," the cloaked figure said, glowering down at the boy._

_Jacob Taggle remained rooted square to the spot, unable to move or speak. The sinister figure towered over him. The man—or creature—was nothing like young Jacob had ever seen in all his young life. The apparition had pasty-white skin. The face appeared shrunken and almost skull-like, skin stretched taut over cheekbone, eyes sunk deep into sockets. The eyes seemed to radiate a ruddy light from somewhere down in their black depths. But worst of all was the fact that he was _grinning, _and horribly, at the terrified urchin boy, displaying a full row of shark-like teeth._

"_Who..wh'what do you want?" stammered Jacob._

"_What do I want? Only a small task suited to clever little urchin lad like you. I want you to find this man—" Here the apparition thrust a color picture in little Jacob's face. At least it looked to Jacob like it was color—the light was dim in the darkened street. But how that could be, Jacob was not certain, for the picture look like a photograph, and that was impossible. Photos were black and white. It showed a young man with a mustache and a dark suit and neatly combed hair. Jacob took in the man's features in an instant, feeling somehow certain that his life might well depend on it._

_The creature snatched the picture back. "Find the man. He will arrive tomorrow at approximately half-past the noon hour, in a bookstall on fourth street. He has a device with him he carries in his trenchcoat pocket. I want you to bring me that device tomorrow night at this very hour. Meet me here with it. I'm sure a clever lad like you can manage that?'_

_Jacob could only stare at him. His head felt like it was spinning round and round._

"_For if you're not here," the apparition said, "Well, just let's say, you'll be mourning your mum and sis come the next morrow. And don't think you can double cross me."_

_With that the tall, cloaked figure turned and vanished away into the night. _

_To the boy's stunned gaze, he appeared to fade into the shadows. _

_Jacob could only stand there, staring into the night where the apparition had stood, uncertain entirely if the whole incident had been cobbled up by his overactive imagination._

_Then, regaining his senses, the turned heel and clattered his way over the cobblestones in the direction of home. And when he had at last bolted up the creaking stairs, and slammed the door to find his mum and sister safe and sound, hot soup bubbling merrily in the kettle, he had never in his life been so relieved._

Jacob remained staring at Jack for a long time tears of fear and confusion on his face.

Jack wondered: what was he going to do now? He now was involved in this, and had this boy to take care of. But then, this did involve his mission, at that.

"Jacob," he told him, "I know you're scared. But I won't allow this man to harm any of your family."

"What can you do?"

"Come with me," Jack told him. "I'll get you and your Mum and sister somewhere where they'll be safe. And anyway, it's me who had the device, so it's me he'll have to deal with."


	8. Chapter 10

9

Jack followed Jacob through the city's twisted alleyways and crooked streets, until they reached the place where the boy and his family resided. He followed Jacob up the creaking wooden stairs to the apartment.

Jacob opened the door. "'Ere we are, Mister."

Jack looked about. It was basically one great room, with three regular-sized beds. There was a small stone fireplace with a kettle, a few chairs, one table and a cabinet filled with pots, pans and cooking utenisals. Clothes and a washtub sat in a corner. The room was cleaner and more orderly than he would have expected.

A young adult woman with straw-blond hair was sitting in a rocking chair, cradling small girl of perhaps four years in her arms. Both of them had started in alarm when Jack and the boy had entered, and were now looking at Jack with sudden fear in their eyes.

Jack was not certain what to do, but he raised both arms in assurance to the woman and her child that he intended neither of them any harm.

But Jacob beat him too it. "Hi Mum," he said cheerfully, assurance in his voice, though the woman still looked frightened. The boy dashed over to the woman's side. "Mum, this is…." Then he suddenly realized that Jack had not introduced himself. He looked over at the man.

"Jack," Jack said, "My name's Jack, ma'am." He stepped forward and extended his right hand in greeting. "The boy here tells me that you've had a strange visitor who made some threats…"

"Visitor?" she said, "We've had no visitors here. Who are you?"

"I'm from a long way off," Jack told her. "Um…from America. I'm in London on business."

"Well, your business 'ent with us. Jacob, you do not know this man. Why did you bring him here? Did you really tell him lies about us?"

Jack looked suddenly at Jacob, aware for the first time that jut perhaps the boy had been leading him on, though to what purpose, he couldn't even begin to guess.

"I ain't lyn', Mum! Honest I ain't! There was a man, I met 'im the other night. 'Ee told me he'd heard you and Millie, if I didn't steal something form this man! Sos, I tried to do it, sos he wouldn't 'urt us none. But he caught me, 'an I told 'im everything, sos I did."

"Jacob…why didn't you tell me all this? You..you tried to steal something?"

Jack removed the tunneler device from his trenchcoat pocket, and held it out to her. "He tried to flitch this off me."

"What …what is it?"

"You wouldn't understand," Jack told her, "But I need it to get back where I'm from." He re-pocketed the device. "I believe that the man who threatened young Jacob wanted to leave me stranded in London."

"Be off with ya, now!" the woman told Jack, "Ya got no business with us!"

"No mum, ya gots to let 'im stay! He knows this …man. He can save us, I think!"

"No offense, ma'am," Jack told her. "But I believe that the boy may be right. If you'll let me explain—"

The woman, to Jack's surprise, at that moment put her face in her hands and began to cry. Little Mille slid to her feet and embraced Jacob.

Jack was quiet for a few moments. He realized then that could have no conception of what this family had been going through. "And I think that the boy should explain more to you about what is going on."

In another moment, all three of them were seated around the wood table. Jack listened calmly, while Jacob explained everything about his encounter with the Grinning Man to his mother and sister.

Jacob's mother—whose name, by the way, was Margery Taggle—said to Jack, "This man, this creature, my son claims to have seen—you know something about him?"

Jack nodded. "I'm certain that I do. But I'm not sure you're prepared to believe everything about him, if I told you. Just to be sure, you know the boy isn't given to telling lies? I'd rather suspect you of suspecting him of fabricating all this."

"Oh, no, my Jacob would never lie—not like this anyway. I can always tell when he's really in a fright about something. I'd like to think though, that his fancy led him to perceive character so this man that weren't so. That 'is eyes burned red, fer instance. Or that he 'ad skin like a corpse. Or that he grinned the way 'ee did with those sharp teeth!"

"I saw, 'em, mum, I really did!" said Jacob, "I saw those teeth!"

"Shush, Jake!"

"Sorry, ma'am," said Jack, "But I am afraid every character that your young Jacob discerned was correct. If I'm right and this is person I was sent to find.'

"Then 'oo is 'ee?" she asked. "And…"here she faltered for words. "_What,_ is 'ee?"

Jacob looked down and sighed. "I'm not exactly sure myself."

"Is he a ghost?" ventured young Emily timidly, speaking up for the first time.

"I'm not sure," said Jack. "No, I don't think he's a ghost. Not the kind you mean anyway. But he does have some strange abilities. Like being able to shape-shift."

"What's that?" Millie, the child, asked.

"Well, he can turn into things. Make himself look like other people of animals. But you can always tell it's him by the eyes."

"You aren't to scare my children," said Margery.

"I'm sorry," Jack said, noticing that the girl was staring at him wide-eyed. "But I was only trying to answer her question. You need to know things about him, too. Another power he had is the ability to disappear and appear at will. And…you see, he can travel to other dimensions and worlds, other worlds, like this one. We don't know, but the people where I come from think he's some sort of evil being intent on spreading as much evil as he can in all the worlds that he can.'

"Different worlds? I don't know what you mean." Margery said.

"Are there people in these worlds?" Millie asked him.

"Why, yes, there are." answered Jack. "Plenty of people actually. There are even other Londons, rather like this one, only different."

"It all sounds rather mad to me," Margery said, looking rather suspiciously at Jack.

"Here, I'll show you," Jack told her, taking a paper and pen out of his pocket. He began drawing a diagram, as best he could, of the physics of other dimensions, and how other universes were arranged, and how the tunneling devices was used to bore through one and into another. "

"So, you're from one of these other worlds!" Jacob cried.

Jack couldn't help but smile at the boy. "Yes, so I am."

"Ee's mad is what ee is," Margery said. "Children, don't listen to him. What he's telling us can't be true. He and this Grinning man might be in league with each other, fer all we know!"

"But…he might be the only one we can that, with that Grinning Man out there."

"I believe I am the only one you can trust," Jack told her, "And I'm afraid I should try to get you to safety. If the Grinning Man threatened the boy, all of your lives may be in danger. If you come with me, I might be able to get you to somewhere safe!"

"Not likely!" Mrs. Taggle said. "my family stays right here. I won't let either of my children out after nightfall, now that I've 'eard all of this. But as long as we're here, no one's coming after us. Mr. Burton, I'm sorry fer ya, ifn' my Jacob tried to flitch that fancy thing off ya. Sos. I'll give you bed and room fer tonight. But yer to be gone on the morrow, do ya hear?"

Jack was about to reply, when suddenly the door burst open on its' hinges. Millie screamed.

In the doorway stood the Grinning Man in all his dark glory. He were a tall, stove-pipe hat in addition to the bat-like cloak that flapped darkly about his shoulders. His skin shone with its sickly pallor in the wan light, and yes, his black eyes emitted a crimsonish glow from somewhere in their depths.

And he grinned at them, horribly.

All of the party in the room was on their feet and moving back from the doorway, as the sinister figure stepped through the jamb.

Outside, night had nearly fallen Jack realized that he should have been doing everything within his power to get the family moving away from this apartment and into a hotel as swiftly as possible.

Emily was staring in shocked disbelief. Jacob and Millie were both clinging to Jack in terror.

And the apparition spoke. "So…the boy didn't manage to flitch your tunneler, did he? No matter. Young Jacob was been most serviceable to me, nonetheless. He's brought me right to you, Jack Burton."

"I won't let you harm them!"Jack said.

"Oh, I have no need to harm Jacob or his family," the Grinning Man said. "As I said Jacob did his job well, only not quite the way I planned it. You on the other hand—"

Here the Grinning Man reached into the pocket of his cloak. Realizing what his adversary was about to do, Jack reached into his own pocket, making to draw forth his laser pistol. But he was not fast enough.

In a flash, the tall form drew his own weapon, a small silvery shooting device. He squeezed what might have been a trigger. Three bursts of hot green light shot from the weapon to strike Burton squarely in the chest. As they did so, Jack was thrown back against the wall, the lights formed into three bands of glowing green light binding his arms behind him. Jack slumped to the floor, apparently unconscious. The Taggles stared at their potential benefactor in horror.

The Grinning Man grinned even more broadly. "Now, young Jacob Taggle, since you have performed your first service so admirably, I have another little service for you."

"No!" Margery screamed at the apparition. "You won't touch my Jacob!"

"Oh, I'm afraid that I must!" insisted the Grinning Man. "You see, the service I require of him is necessary for the destruction of another young urchin boy. The one in the papers. And what better way to use one child to destroy the life of another. There is window in a manorhouse, one just small enough for a small boy to fit through. My, does that sound familiar."

Mille, Jacob, and Margery stared at him in mute incomprehension.

"Ah, you are illiterate of course. But perhaps you've _heard _of this other boy? No matter, young Jacob has a job to do, and he must come with me."

Margery screamed, but the monster simply reached out and wrenched Jacob away from her. Millie fell down and began bawling.

Placing the boy under his arm the Grinning Man told them, "Never fear I shall return him. Any urchin boy would do. Jacob just happens to be privileged.

And with that, he flew out the door and into the waiting night.


	9. Chapter 11

10

The great manorhouse of Lord Peter Fleming blazed with light. Horse-drawn coaches pulled up in front of the vast entrance, their hoofs striking the cobblestones loudly in the blue autumn twilight.

Everyone was here for the grand regalia, in honor of Lord Peter's newly appointed heir.

Lords and Ladies, attired in rich satins and fine silks, marched up the wide marble steps to the manor.

There were certain wealthy members of the _bourgeoisie_ class as well, most of them members of parliament, and/or distinguished friends of the family, who were invited as well. And among those, none were more welcomed than Mr. George Brownlow, and his adopted heir, young Oliver Twist—not to mention his aunt, Rose Maylie and her husband Harry.

All four of them, along with the housekeeper Mrs. Bedwin and the Butlers Giles and Brittles and Doctor Losberne had travelled in their coaches. They got out gazed about at the sumptuous grandeur of the great manorhouse.

When they entered, little Oliver Twist gazed about at the finery in rapt wonder. He had been at Fleming's only once before, and that in the daytime. Now, as they entered the central hall, and filed into the vast ballroom, he was even more stupefied by it than he had before. Even the estates of Brownlow and Maylies, which had once seemed like opulent palaces to the starved orphan boy, seemed plain and mean by comparison. For here dwelled the true members of the aristocracy. And Oliver realized, that if his mother had not run off in shame, he might have been raised amongst such splendor. Twisting staircases of marble wound and up and up. Costly paintings by French and Flemish masters adorned the walls of great hallway, and as Oliver emerged with the company into the ballroom, the vaulted ceiling was so vast and high that gazing up at it made him dizzy. Great, glittering chandeliers depended from the ceiling, each one blazing with dazzling luminance.

He gazed around at all the grownups the lords and ladies in attendance, all of them decked out in their frills and finery. The servants had made sure that Oliver, too, was dressed in his finest. He had on his best burgundy-colored jacket, with lace ruffles and a floppy bow of a cravat. His white-blond hair had been scrubbed until it almost shone.

The orchestra struck up a lively minuet. Everyone began dancing. As Oliver had not a partner, he spent the first dance standing alone, and looking rather confused. Rose gave the first round to her husband. But when the musicians struck up the second number, Rose took her nephew and danced the next few tunes with him. Oliver was delighted to be dancing with Rose. But for the next round, Rose returned to her neglected husband, and Oliver was more than complacent in waiting the next tune out.

Then someone tapped the boy on his shoulder. Oliver spun around to see a small girl of his own age, or perhaps slightly younger smiling brightly at her. She had on a ball dress and gown, in exact imitation of her elders. "Hello, Oliver," she said, "Will you dance with me?"

"I'd love to," Oliver told her.

He took her in his arms and they began to twirl and spin with the melodious tune of the orchestra.

"I know all about you," the girl told Oliver as they danced.

"You do?"

"My name's Celia, and read all about you in the papers. You're Mr. Brownlow's stepson."

"I'm his adopted son."

"He took you off the streets. I think that was really sweet of him."

"Well…I'm very grateful to him that he did."

"I am too. If he didn't, we wouldn't be dancing together." Celia smiled at him, and Oliver had much the impression that this young aristocratic girl definitely was having feelings for him.

Soon the minuet stopped, and this time the orchestra fell silent, and there was a slight murmuring throughout the ballroom.

"Attention, everyone!"

It was the strong voice of Lord Peter, and all heads turned in his direction. Oliver and Celia strained themselves to see over the ocean of adult heads.

"I have a very important announcement to make." said the young lord, whom the children now saw was standing on a podium at the front of the ballroom. Lord Peter looked much as Oliver had seen him last, his fair immaculately combed, dressed in a blue felt jacket with laced cuffs. "I'm sure you are all aware that I'm throwing this party tonight, not just to provide all of you a wonderful time—" here he paused for the obligatory chortle of laughter from the vast company—"but to honor a very special person in the crowd tonight."

Celia immediately looked knowingly at Oliver, who could feel his ears begin to slightly burn.

"He happens to be a young acquaintance of mine, the adopted son of a long-time friend of the family, Mr. George Brownlow, and my own very own nephew, Oliver Twist."

The sound of boisterous clapping surged in Oliver's ears, and the boy felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment.

"That is the name, in fact, that he still prefers to go by," continued Lord Peter once the clapping had subsided. "But formerly, I have made my decision to name him my own official heir, and thusly, the Fourth Baron of Wilshire, Lord Oliver Fleming."

Again there was a great swell of clapping. Oliver's cheeks burned ever fiercer; he was aware of Celia gazing admiring at him, and some of the adult gentry and nobility who were standing near them were glancing down fondly at him.

"Now, young Master Twist, bless his soul, never asked to be named heir to a great title. He considered himself beneath it. Not, I think, due to his tragic background, as I'm sure all of you aware—but because of my nephew's innate piety and humility. In fact, it is this boy's astounding virtue in the face of brutality and starvation, obstacles such as you and I have scarcely dreamed of facing, but that Oliver not only faced and prevailed, that he is already an heir to a vast fortune. Brownlow and Miss Maylie would have made him their own anyway, but his father, Mr. Edwin Leeford, entitled the boy to a vast fortune on very specific conditions. And here are the man's very own words to that effect "

Here Peter Fleming took up a piece of paper and read, "'only on the stipulation that in his minority he should never have stained his name with any public act of dishonor, meanness, cowardice, or wrong.' Now not knowing Mr. Leeford personally, I cannot say with confidence that he did not wish his young charge to fail by presenting what he might have supposed were insurmountable terms. In fact, I rather suspect this to be the case, giving how he deserted my sister when she needed him most, and wished to inflict only misery upon his own unborn child. But, by the grace of God, little Oliver accomplished what Leeford may have thought to have been impossible. And, so, I will add to Leeford's testament, my own: Some here have questioned that this boy should be claimed on his mother's side, given the tragic circumstances of my nephew's birth. Well, I have included Leeford's own terms in my will. What I am saying is that Oliver shall be made heir, not merely by blood relation, but by virtue of his moral character. From what we have all learned of the conditions of the poorhouses and the streets of London from Oliver's story, I believe that a time of great social reform should begin now. In that spirit, I have made my nephew's implacable character the measure for which I name him heir to the family barony. I anticipate the day when, grown to a man, our Oliver will use his title and position to do away with the cruel conditions that continue to fester at this very moment, beyond these comfortable walls."

As the sound of clapping filled his ears once more, Oliver's small face broke into an angelic smile. Gratitude swelled warmly in his heart. His uncle was doing all of this not just for him, but so he could use his wealth and title to help others. He found that he was looking forward to that future time as well. He clapped along with the others, and Celia, smiling beatifically herself, clapped along with him, still gazing at Oliver fondly.

"A-hem," said a voice, once the clapping had died down to a murmur.

Peter Fleming looked to his right.

"I don't wish to spoil the atmosphere tonight," said the voice, "But I and my associates might have something a bit disagreeable to add."

Oliver and Celia were caught off guard. After the warm and triumphant moment that had just elapsed, a dark pall seemed to have pervaded the company. Uneasy murmurs rose all around them. The children looked in the direction from which the voice had issued, but could not see through the mass of adult bodies.

"What might that be?" Lord Peter said.

"Just that I rather question the terms of your and Mr. Leeford's will."

"Really. And who am I addressing?"

"Drummle, sir. Bentley Drummle. What I am questioning sir, is on what basis to we suppose to be certain, absolutely positive, that young Master Twist here has _truly _adhered to the conditions set forth in the contract? We all know he is of illegitimate birth—yes, there, I said it—and that he ran away from the workhouse, and fell in with a gang of thieves and hoodlums. Oh, I know that the charges that were brought up against him have long been cleared. But during all that time, can we really suppose that he never once committed a single act of indecency, selfishness, or moral ineptitude?"

The room was in state of shocked silence for several terribly long seconds. Then Lord Peter said, "To answer your question, Drummle, personally no, I don't believe he ever did. I know young Oliver, and my friends know him very well. He would never do any such thing. No other person, in fact, is more entitled to my inheritance than young Twist, legitimate or otherwise. But I think what you've said is beside the point. Oliver has fulfilled the conditions set forth in the will most admirably, and you'd be forced to labor very hard to prove otherwise, if indeed you ever could. "

There was some clapping on Lord Peter's behalf. But then Drummle cleared his throat and said, "Well, be that as it may, I want to voice my own opinion, unpopular though it may be with you and yours, that making an heir of an illegitimate foundling—even though aristocratic blood may run blue in his veins—is a serious error. In fact, I can think of no more offensive outrage than this, if I may put it bluntly!"

"I second that!"

Oliver had edged his way through the crowd of adults, and peering up as far as he could, he was able to discern Drummle. He was a fat, pompous-looking man with a mustache. He was also able to glimpse the man who had just spoken—and his blood froze in his veins.

He recognized the man—it was none other than the gentleman in the white waistcoat, who had been on the workhouse board. The same man who swore that someday he would hang.

"And who might you be?" Oliver's uncle demanded.

"Screed, sir. Mr. Flinwick Screed, at your service.'

"I am not sir,' retorted Lord Peter, "not entirely sir that I care to have you in my service—either of you, for that matter."

There were murmurs of approval from the crowd. But Flinwick Screed said, "I'll have you know this sir—I knew that boy while he was growing up. He was a terrible recalcitrant, and a horrible effect upon the other waifs! I would even go so far as to call him an upstart and a rebel. And if he had remained in then workhouse, he might even have encouraged a revolt of some kind."

"Well, then, all the better for him then," said Peter fiercely, "My nephew happens to a very spirited young man. I would have been proud of him indeed had he organized a child revolt against one of those places."

There was rousing applause all around this time, all of it on the side of Oliver and his uncle. Oliver, though distressed, felt warmly insolated by his adult supporters. Celia through her arms about him and gave him a hug—then kissed Oliver on the cheek. Taken by surprise, Oliver again blushed bright red.

As the audience calmed down, Lord Peter announced for everyone to enter the dining hall for the sumptuous evening feast prepared by his team of talented chefs.

Oliver sat with Rose, Harry, and Mr. Brownlow. He was gratified that little Celia had taken her place right across from him. She smiled at him throughout the meal.

After everyone had gorged themselves on the rich, aristocratic foods, Oliver, Celia, and the other children were shown to their bedrooms Oliver was given a room across from where Rose would sleep in a couple more hours. Tired by the night's events, the boy lapsed very quickly into sleep.

He was not certain just when the terrible shouting awakened him.

Oliver sat bolt upright. Outside his room he heard the shrieks of ladies, and the shouts of men.

"Murder! Murder!"

"Where is the bloody blackguard?"

"Someone, call the constable!"

Oliver stepped, blinking blearily, into the hallway.  
Rose was already there, and she took him into her arms. "Oh, Oliver dear."

"Rose, Rose, what's happened?"

"I don't know! There's something wrong with Bentley Drummle."

"You mean the man who—"

"Yes, _that_ man," Rose said.

Peter's guests dashed around them, running downstairs and into the grand ball room. Reluctantly, Rose and Oliver began following them.

When they reached the base of the winding staircase, they found a vast crowd of aristos, and two medics were, to Oliver's astonishment and horror, carrying Bentley Drummle . One of them was doctor Losberne, Oliver's long-time friend. They laid him down on the floor. The fat man was coughing, and hacking. One of the doctors checked his pulse.

Oliver watched tentatively.

"Will he be alright?" someone asked.

"I think so," said Losberne "But we're lucky to have been there. He seems he took a very strong overdose of laudanum. A dose of this concentration is potentially fatal. It could have killed him."

"But I did not take any tonight!" Drummle coughed. "I had some in possession, yes. But someone entered my room when I was asleep, and forced the stuff up my nose and into my throat. Someone with the intent to murder me!"

"Don't be ridiculous, Drummle, you oaf! No one would want to murder you!"

"Oh, no?" Drummle said. The man's eyes narrowed toward Oliver, who gulped and cringed. "How about the young man I spoke out against this very evening."

"That's preposterous, Drummle!" exclaimed Lord Peter. "My nephew would do no such thing!"

"You'll have _us _to answer to, if you dare accuse Oliver!" exclaimed Brownlow hotly.

"Really!" said Drummle. "Well I happened to catch a glimpse of whoever it was as he ran off just before the seizure overtook me. I heard his footfalls. They were light, like a child's. And from what I could see of him as he whirled and ran, it definitely was a child with longish hair, just like this boy!"

"And I have proof," said a voice.

Oliver's blood ran cold, for he recognized clearly Mr. Screed's voice.

A murmuring furrowed through the crowd, as all eyes turned in the man's direction. Mr. Screed made his way through the crowd, and held up his hand for all to see.

"Proof, I have it here. " He held a strand of hair. "I found _this _on master Drummle's pillow. It did not come to be there by accident. Someone was in Mr. Drummle's room tonight." He held the hair up to the light, allowed the luminance to play through and over the strand. "Hmmm. It is, from its consistency, a child's hair, very blond, of about shoulder length. Who here among us, do you think, has hair of this exact length and shade?"

All eyes fell hesitantly upon the boy.

He squinty eyes turned malevolently upon young Oliver Twist, who gave a small yelp of fright. He pointed furiously at the boy. "Proof! Oliver Twist is guilty of the attempted murder of Bentley Drummle!"

"No!" cried Oliver, tears leaking out of his eyes. "No! On my honor! I didn't do it! Please believe me!"

"We believe you, Oliver!" said Rose drawing him tightly to her.

"And I certainly, believe you, lad!" said Lord Peter, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder.

And some of the others did as well. But now there were harsh intonations among the adults, and Oliver knew that some of them were no longer on his side, and that many more were unsure.

"If that hair does belong to Oliver," said Brownlow, "Then my adopted son had been framed. And I intend to find the culprits."

"Perhaps you are right," said an unnervingly familiar voice. "But for now, we're afraid young Oliver Twist is going to be in our custody."

All eyes turned in the direction. It was constable Snerkins and his companion Vittles. "Screed already informed us of young Oliver's compliancy. Young Twist, you'll be coming with us."

The constables rushed forward, seized Oliver's wrists, and wrenched the squirming, wriggling boy from Rose's grasp.

"Oliver!" Rose cried.

"_Rose!"_ cried Oliver.

"So much for the contract," Mr. Screed sneered around in triumph to the company, as the struggling boy was led away, screaming in protest.

"_No! Noo! Nooooooo!"_

And within the astonished and mortified crowd, young Celia began to weep.


	10. Chapter 12

10

As the frightened and confused boy was dragged away, the manorhouse of Lord Peter Fleming was left in an uproar. To their shock and dismay Brownlow, the Maylies, and their friends, could hear to the intonations of the crowd that there was much debate on the sudden and unexpected turn of events. It was obvious that their supporters had diminished.

"How…how could anything believe that Oliver could have done such a thing?"

"I'm afraid that Bentley Drummle had a rather poor reputation, even among his fellow aristos. He's had more than his share of drunkenness, womanizing, and the rest."

"So they take his word over a boy who never stained his reputation," Harry said bitterly

"I'm afraid that's part of the problem," Peter said. "Drummle may have asked to be done a mischief, but the fact he spoke up against Oliver provides a motive for the boy."

"They can't. They just can't believe it."

Just then, Doctor Losberne came up to them. "For better or for worse," he said, "Drummle is going to live. But, I'm very sorry, I believe that the strand of hair Screed uncovered certainly has every appearance of belonging to Oliver."

"Then Screed had to have planted it," said Brownlow. "Or someone did. I'll wager that he and Drummle himself are both in on this. Whoever it is, I will find them out, no matter how long it takes, no matter what we must do!"

"I am with you!" said Peter. "We must set to work at once!"

"Doctor—surely you don't think our Oliver made an attempt on Sir Drummle's life, do you?"

"No-I most certainly do not. I know the boy as well as any of you. But it appears that the real culprits have planted their evidence well. And…"

"And what?"

"And I have a suspicion that we may be up against a deeper and more extensive plot than any of us realizes."

"Why…why do you say that?" asked Rose. But deep and dreadsome fear had already begun to grow within her.

Losberne shrugged. "I'm not sure. Call it a wager. But those police…they intended to supervise the ball tonight, and I can't help but wonder…and Drummle was attacked the very night he raised his objection to Oliver's inheriting his title...and then Screed happens to have recovered a hair of Oliver's head. What was he doing poking around in Drummle's room anyway? And…there was an incident…after Sikes made Oliver break into the house, when Oliver had recovered from the bullet wound…"

"What incident?" Rose asked.

"Well…I'm not sure it has to do with anything, really…"

Just then constable Flickart strode up. "Hallo," he said. "Very sorry to hear what has befallen Oliver."

"Do you suspect him?" Rose asked. "Oh, you don't, do you?"

"I don't know what to think." The constable admitted. "The evidence, I want you to realize, does not lie in the boy's favor."

"But you can't believe that—"

"Now, now. I'm sworn to uphold the law. And from what I've seen of the boy, I would never in a thousand years suspect that he were capable of such a thing, even to an ass such as Drummle. And if I were to wager, well frankly the whole business reeks of villainy. But I am but one man. All I can promise you is that I will do all that I can to uncover the conspiracy, if conspiracy it in fact is. And if our Oliver is guiltless I will not rest until the truth becomes known, no matter how many layers of malignancy I am forced to peel back in order to get at it."

"I hope, indeed, that you are on our side, and you will do all within your power, sir!" said Brownlow. "I am prepared to work with you."

"Those constables Vittles and Snerkins…they..well, I'll tell you right now that they've been under suspicion for some time—one more reason I suspect treachery in this."

Losberne was about the speak at that moment of an event which he felt just might have consequence, but-

"Wait!" said Brownlow. "Where is Rose?"

They all looked about, but Rose seemed to have vanished.

Dashing out of the mansion, and down the steps, Rose Maylie fled through the crowds of confused nobility and gentry. She to where the carriages were parked. When she reached the one belonged to herself and her husband, she undid the harness of one of the horses, a dappled gray named Pepper. The girl soothed the horse's nose, and calmed her. The she took a scrap of paper, wrote on it a note to Harry about what she intended to do, and left it on the seat of the carriages. If Harry needed another horse to get home, she was certain that Lord Peter could provide him with one.

While Losberne and the constable were conversing ,she had made her way through the crowd to where she could see Vittles and Snerkins escorting her nephew. She wanted to rush to Oliver's aide, but that of course would have been a useless endeavor. So forced herself to maintain her distance, until she saw the constables push the boy into their carriage and slam the door. Her heart wrenched horridly; tears leaked from her eyes, as she watched Oliver borne away.

But she had a hunch, and powerful one, that where they were taking her young nephew was somewhere other than where constables were normally commissioned to escort their charges.

How she knew, Rose couldn't have said. But she did.

She mounted Pepper, and, careful to remain far enough behind not to be seen, she rode off in pursuit of the constable and their young captive.

It was a nightmare, and wouldn't quit.

Oliver, his mind dazed by the sudden events that had been suddenly thrust upon him.

The constables had thrust him rudely into the cell of the carriage. The boy seized the bars on the small, square window that looked into the coach. Snerkins and Vittles were there, sharing muted conversation, and chuckling meanly to one another.

"Stop, please!" Oliver cried. "I'm innocent, I swear it!"

The two men erupted into coarse laughter. Snerkins glanced back at the boy, a terrible, uncaring smirk upon his features.

"Yup, you're innocent, awright, Oliver! Haha! _We_ know that! Too bad no one else ever will!"

_They knew he hadn't done it, and they didn't care._

Oliver, terrified, felt a horrible compulsion to beg and plead. But summoning his will, the boy fought it down and held his tongue.

These men, he knew, were far beyond paying his pleading the slightest heed. Not because they suspected him of Sir Drummle's attempted murder by laudanum poisoning. They knew he was innocent every bit as much as he did himself.

There was a plot here, some sort of vast conspiracy that Oliver's dazed mind could barely comprehend. Someone had set him up. That much he knew. The supposed attempt on Drummle's life had been prearranged.

By who?

Oliver's mind raced back to the terrible days before his rescue by the Maylies. Monks, the sinister associate of Fagin's who was revealed as his half-brother, sprang immediately to his mind. But Monks was in prison—wasn't he?

Suddenly, Oliver wasn't so sure. Didn't his guardian say something once about Monks having served his sentence, and had set sail for America, no doubt to involve himself in further nefarious dealings? Yes! But Monks was clever. Perhaps that had been a ruse, and he was back in London after all. Neither Oliver nor any of his friends and family had seen or heard of him. But someone had to be at the center of the dreadfulness which had overtaken him, and all at once Oliver was certain that his half-brother must be at large once more.

Monks—Edward Leeford—was back in England, if indeed he had ever left. And he was far from finished. He knew that this half-brother hated him with a vengeance, nearly to the point of madness. Yes, somehow Monks had to be involved.

The carriage drove on and on, and slowly Oliver began to realize, from the duration of the journey, and the fact that, from what he was able to see from the small, square windows, that his captors had _not_ taken the road toward London, as they should have, and instead appeared to have taken a route that led them deeper into the country.

At last, Oliver felt the carriage clatter to a halt. The men dismounted, and opened the cell door. Rough hands yanked the boy out.

Gripping the twelve-year-old roughly by one arm each, Vittles and Snerkins drug the hopelessly struggling Oliver down the road. It was still deep in the night. They were obviously still in the country. Great trees spread their dark, brooding branches overhead, through which a sour wind sighed. Oliver glanced around. Vaguely, he seemed to recognize where ever they were, night though it was. He wasn't sure, but he though they must be somewhere not too far from Maylies' house, though why that should be he couldn't begin to guess. Then he saw the bridge.

And the house.

It was a smallish house. Oliver could see that it was lit up within with a glow that he might have supposed cheerful under different circumstances. He also observed that then house was near the river, and suddenly, as though in a great whoosh, realization downed over him: this was the same house where he and Bill Sikes had laid low for the night on their mission to burglarize the Maylies. The home, which he supposed at the time, was the lair of Toby Crackit, Sikes' friend, who had assisted them in the attempted robbery. Even at night, the house was very plain to him. That the constables had brought him here, of all places, was something that he couldn't venture to guess—except that all this had to have some connection with Fagin's gang, after all, which further pointed to Monks as the culprit.

Only when the chortling, sneering, constables pulled him to the door and rapt upon it that Oliver chanced to remember his once other, half-remembered experience at this same house. That had been after he had recovered from the bullet wound, and he and Doctor Losberne had taken a drive in the country—

Snerkins knocked louder this time. "Mr. Quigsnip! 'Allo, Mr. Quigsnip! Were' 'ere. already! 'An we've got the boy, fer ya!"

The door opened, and a large, tall, and very roguish looking man glowered down at the three of them. Oliver had never seen him before, though he reminded him somewhat of Bill Sikes.

"Pipe, down, will ya! Yer on serious business, here!"

The two constables—rogue constables, they had to be, as Oliver had come to realize—were both visibly intimidated by this man.

"Well, okay, Bludger, sorry. We didn't mean to raise a ruckus. We just mean to let the master know we've done as 'ee asked us!"

Bludger peered his small, squinty black eyes down at Oliver. "So I see. So this is young Twist, the workhouse foundling, who was supposed to inherit a great fortune, eh? Ha ha ha!"

Vittles and Snerkins began to chortle along with him.

"_Shut yer faces!"_ roared Bludger, and both men did. "Well?" said Bludger, "Don't just stand there, follow me!"

Snerkins and Vittles entered, dragging the unwilling Oliver with them.

The boy glanced around at the interior, which seemed to differ, strikingly, from the way it had appeared the first time he had been taken here, just as Losberne had reported. And as the brigands dragged him into the central room of the house, he saw that although the room was of the identical size and dimension, the furnishing had been completely altered. A number of men of disreputable appearance stood about the room, looking down at him with pitiless eyes. And crouching monstrously in a large wooden chair, like a great corpulent spider in the center of his finely spun web, Oliver saw-

The boy gasped, as horror he had never known, even in his darkest hours, rose up within him like a black gale, threatening to overwhelm his senses, and send him spiraling into the black abyss of oblivion.

_The humpbacked man!_

The very same ugly, dwarfish humpbacked man who had confronted Losberne at this very house. Horribly, Oliver relived the terrifying moment when this very man had peered in at him through the carriage window, and fixed him a stare so awful, so vindictive that he was unable to forget for months afterward. And he recalled also, as for the first time, the horrid moment when constable Flickart had shown him the picture of the very same villain at the estate of Lord Peter. Now Oliver recalled the overwhelming shock of the recognition, how he had lapsed into blessed unconsciousness, his conscious memory overriding and blacking it out even upon his recovery.

Here he was!

_He was behind it all!_ Oliver's dazed mind screamed, as the realization burst fully upon him. _Fagin's gang, Monks, Sikes and Toby Crackit, all of it! This man was the_ real_ gang leader, the secret power behind the entire criminal operation._

Somehow, this man even had control of these two constables. Was he even behind Bentley Drummle's Laudanum poisoning? Yes, he must have been, which hinted that he most have—or have acquired—tendrils of influence which were able to extend far beyond the criminal underworld. The very thought brought on a new wave of dizziness over the boy. How much power might this man have? The man had already been able to snare _him_. What about the other members of his family?

Losberne had called him a ridiculous old vampire, and indeed, like some loathsome creature of night the man appeared. In the flickering blaze of firelight from the small hearth, the man appeared even more hideous than he had the time that Oliver had first encountered him. The man had a large, crooked nose, two, small, beady, viperfish black eyes, and a jutting chin and extended hideously farther than normal. Tufts of scraggly gray hair snaked out from underneath his coal-black, stove-pipe hat. He was slumped hideous in his chair by his condition, which served to further his loathsome resemblance to a loathsome grandfather spider. And he grinned savagely at the boy, drawing a small, involuntary cry of muted terror from Oliver's lips. The man's corroded and discolored incisors were so rodentine in appearance that the mere sight of them made Oliver dizzy with horror, and if he hadn't already been nearly overwhelmed by the conditions he now found himself horribly immersed in, the boy might well have lapsed into a merciful faint. But the boy's senses remained dreadfully wide awake, as he stared, as though with opium-drugged fascination, at his hideous, gloating captor. The entire situation which had woven itself, inexplicably around him, seemed to have taken on the conditions of a dreamlike state. It seemed to maintain the substance of reality, even as Oliver's other senses insisted to him that the whole thing could only be nightmare, something conjured out of a fever -induced delirium. Yes, maybe that was it, some far-off portion of Oliver's mind feebly argued. Maybe he'd collapsed into a fever, and what he was experiencing was merely a vivid illusion cast by the condition. Maybe he was safe, laying on his bed in Maylies' cottage.

"So, we meet once again, young Master Twist."

Oliver said nothing. The boy was staring in dizzied stupefaction, whimpering miserably.

Distantly, he heard chortles issue from some of the adults around him.

"I'll wager you'd forgotten all about me, boy," the humpback sneered. "But you know me now, don't you, my fine young lad? I believe we met here a scant two year ago. You and that impetuous doctor had the audacity to intrude upon my humble domicile. Ah, you do remember me. I see it, from the way you're trembling."

The hideous apparition leaned forward, gloating upon his hideous features. "Oliver Twist. Young Oliver Twist. The poor, young workhouse foundling who had the terminity to ask for more gruel. Oh, you certainly have all of London in an uproar. I made sure to collect all the articles about you, my lad. Already, the Torries are on the verge of their long-dreamed of goal—to reform the New Poor Law, or even doing away with all those terrible, cruel workhouses entirely. I've got to hand it to you, boy. Quite a stir you've caused, I must say."

Oliver still said nothing. He could not have uttered a word even if he were to attempt it.

"But I'm afraid all that is behind us now. The Artful Dodger taught you how to be a pickpocket. Fagin taught you how to be a thief. Bill Sikes taught you how to burglarize your own aunt's larder. But you taught the whole world a lesson of love! That's what the papers said of you, anyway. But, I'm willing to bet, young Twist, that the papers, and all of London, in fact, is going to have a rather different opinion of you very soon, once they discover your attempt upon the life of the distinguished Sir Drummle."

Somehow those words of his captor were like shock of cold ice-water for the boy. They had the effect of knocking Oliver clear out of his stupor.

"_That's a lie!"_ he shrieked at the man.

"Very perceptive, young master Twist," sneered the hunchback. And he grinned even more horribly, if that feat were possible, displaying even more corroded fangs than before "But let's keep it our own little secret shall we?"

Oliver, once more, had gone mute. He stared at his captor in mute, unbelieving horror, his large eyes distended and owl-like.

The hunchback chortled. "Oh, it's not that Sir Drummle is a popular man. Far from it, not especially among his nearest associates. But he is a man of much importance, and any attempt on his life shall be rife with infamy. You've stained your own birthright bright red, boy. Red as spilt blood! Ha ha! So much for your late father's will. And you can kiss your uncle's estate goodbye. I know all about your disgusting virtue, Twist—how you spoke out against your own adult overseers at the workhouse. How you demanded more gruel for another lice-infested wretch. How you resisted all of our attempts to turn you to a life of crime. Well, I intend to erase all of that form the minds and hearts of everyone, even all your closest friends, who had the misfortune to take pity on you! Because I have a score to settle with you boy, and it goes far beyond the intrusion of you and that miserable doctor upon my property. "The man's voice suddenly rose to a horrid shriek of vindictiveness_. "You ruined my entire operation, boy! Thousands and thousands of pounds are gone, on your account! My most trusted fence was hung on your account! Sikes, one of my best burglars, also lies in his grave! _And—" here his voice lowered once more—"you cost the life of someone who was very dear to me. Someone whom I can never replace."

Even in his frozen terror, these words had a profound effect upon Oliver, and something deep in his compassionate young heart and suddenly mellowed, even for this loathsome man. An uncanny sympathy for this monstrous person bloomed unexpectedly within him. _Someone very dear to him?_ His mind screamed the question deafeningly. _Whoever could that be?_

"Stop! Let Oliver go!" screamed a voice. It had issued seemingly out of thin air, somewhere to the back of the room.

But instead of reacting in sudden alarm to the cry, sly, horrid smiles crept over the faces of most of the men in the room. For the voice was unmistakably that of a young girl, and thus carried no threat.

Oliver realized, also, that thoughts of carnal amusement were doubtless the cause of these brigands' mirth. But what whelmed his senses with a fresh wave of utter horror was the fact he recognized the voice.

_Rose!_

"_LET THE BOY GO!"_

Snerkins and Vittles released their hold on Oliver, who stumbled to the floor, then twisted around and looked back over his shoulder.

He saw, in dark dread, Rose Maylie standing a few feet away from him. She was pointing a pistol directly at Snerkins' heart. The constable stepped back, his arms raised.

How Rose came to be here, and how she had managed to get hold of the weapon, Oliver didn't know, but he knew that she was dreadfully outnumbered, and had no chance of shooting all of them.

The men moved gloatingly toward her. The brave girl stood her ground.

"That's my gun," said constable Snerkins, "I left it on the seat, and she must have filched it."

"You fools!" shouted the hunchback. "You let the girl follow you here. _Kill her!"_

The man called Bludger approached Rose menacingly.

"Get back!" shouted Rose taking a step back.

"We're having some fun with you, girl!" Bludger said. He took another step in Rose's direction.

Rose cocked the pistol, began to squeeze the trigger.

The hulking man's hand swept out in a blurring flash, swatting the weapon from the girl's hand.

Rose shrieked and fell back, the pistol clattering away.

Bludger roared triumphantly and surged forward, his fellows cheering him on.

Oliver was roused completely and totally out of his dazed stupor nearly without any awareness of it. The winded boy sprang, with seemingly superhuman quickness to his feet. Screaming like an avenging angel, the boy charged the hulking man who was threatening Rose. The other men, startled, leapt back out of his way as the thin, undersized twelve-year-old sprang full upon Bludger's back and sank his small, white teeth into the man's ear. The man bellowed in agony.

Rose scrambled to her feet and fled, as swiftly she could out the door and to where Pepper stood waiting for her. She threw herself up upon the horse's back, and was thenriding away under the full moon. Alone, she could do nothing to save her nephew. She had to find some—anyone—who could help.

Back in the hunchback's house, Bludger was roaring _"Get 'im orf! Git the work 'us brat orf me!"_

One of Bludger's friend's seized up a stout cudgel and bludgeoned the lad over the head with it. Oliver's world exploded into white stars as the cudgel smashed into his blond head. Out cold, Oliver's eyes rolled up as he slammed into the floor, blood leaking through his hair.

"My, my," chortled Mr. Quigsnip. "Now if this doesn't look familiar. Certainly an appropriate fate for our young Mr. Oliver Twist."


	11. Chapter 13

11

"_Mister? Mister? You awright, sir?"_

Jack Burton's eyes opened. He slowly came awake.

The first thing that he realized that he was still in the apartment of the Taggles. The second thing that he realized was that his arms were firmly pinioned to his side. He felt the slight, not too unpleasant tingling of the energy bands that he now saw were binding him.

It was a child's voice who had spoken. Jack saw little Millie leaning over to look at her bright blue eyes inspecting his face.

"Em! Come away from that man at once!" said Mrs. Taggle's voice.

"But, we've got to help him, mum! He tried to help us!"

"We've got to do no such thing!" her mother told her. "Ee's a stranger. It's more 'n likely 's fault that man—that _thing—_took our Jacob."

"And I can get him back!" Jack said. "I can save Jacob, if you just me free!" In truth though, he spoke with more confidence than he had. He knew relatively little about the Grinning Man, and what his powers were. He was unnerved by the fact that the creature had known approximately when and where he was to arrive in the Dickensverse, and had given the boy his physical description. But still, he was the only one who knew anything at all about the monster, and he felt he was this family's best hope under the circumstances.

Could he really find young Jacob? He really wasn't sure, but he was determined to give it his best shot.

"I'll free you Mister," Millie said. "But—how?"

"Reach in my vest pocket," said Burton, "And find my energy vaporizer. It's something else I carry with me—for situations like this."

"Em, don't trust him!" Emily told her.

"No! She must!" Jack insisted. "Do not worry—no harm will come to her. " Then to the child. "Reach in my pocket."

Millie took a step toward the bound man and prepared to do so. She reached forth tentatively, then retracted her hand with a slight whimper, intimidated by the glowing energy bands.

"Those things will not hurt you to touch them, "Jack Burton assured her. "But reach around them if you must."

Millie did, and she was, with some difficulty, able to place her fingers into his pocket without them brushed the strange, glowing bands of light. She moaned a bit with fear, and stood up on tiptoes, as she reached further in. Millie felt her hand brush something. Then, she felt around it, gauging its size and consistency. The child's finger's closed around the device and drew it forth.

"Mille..." said Mrs. Taggle hesitantly. "what is that…? Put it down!"

It was a small, square device like a twentieth-century calculator. It was much smaller, however, though it sported an array of buttons on it.

"Now, kid," Burton said, "Listen to me carefully. Point it toward me. To be precise, point it toward the…loops of green light around me. Can you do that?"

Mille held it toward the energy bands as best she could, her small hand trembling as she handled the unfamiliar device.

"Good! Now, see if you can press the green button twice." Millie did this. "Now the red. Now the blue. Now the purple. Now it the green button twice more."

Millie completed the instructions, and then gasped as the energy bands holding Mr. Burton vanished as though they never were. The man got shakily to his feet.

"Good work," Jack told her. "Now give it to me."

Mille started to hand Jack the energy vaporizer.

"No!" cried Emily suddenly. The woman had seized a poker form the fire and was brandishing it at Jack. "Don't give it to him! It might be a weapon. Like that_ thing_, that creature had."

"It's no weapon, Mrs. Taggle," Jack assured her.

"Awright," she said "Awright, give the man his thing."

Millie glanced her mother, then quickly placed the vaporizer in Jack's pocket.

"Now, get out!" Emily told him, jabbing the poker toward his face. "Get ya away from me and my kin!"

"I'm sorry, ma'am," Jack told her, endeavoring to speak as calmly as he was able, "But I fear I may be, in coming to London at this hour, responsible for what happened to Jacob. And I fear also that you may need me to get him back."

Emily looked slightly hesitant then.

"Yes, he may be!" Millie put in. "That creature came to Jacob, told him he'd hurt us, if he did rob this man! Jacob told me, too!"

Her mother looked at her in sudden surprise. "Why…Millie…why didn't you tell me?"

"'Cuz you'd just think we were kids making up stories, that's why! Wouldn't you?"

The girl let the poker crash to the floor. She fell on her knees sobbing and held her daughter.

For several seconds nobody in the apartment spoke.

Then Jack said, "Look…,"

Emily, still clutching her daughter looked up at Jack fiercely. "We don't know who you are, Mister," she said. "How can we trust you?"

In truth Jack was uncertain how to answer her. How _could_ they trust him? They knew little more about him than they did the Grinning Man. "Maybe you can't, completely. But who else knows anything at all about the monster that kidnapped Jacob, and is hiding him somewhere at this very minute?"

"Awright," she said, as she and Millie got to their feet and faced him. "What can we do to get my boy back?"

"First," said Jack, "I need to get the both of you somewhere safe. Maybe to an inn. I've got plenty of money…"

"That creature, that you call the Grinning Man…what do you know about him? What does he want with my son? He said he had a job for Jacob to do, something about burglary."

Jack could see how very near to tears the woman was. He tried to answer as near he could "I'm not really sure. But know this: there are other worlds than these, and he is able to travel from world to world. In truth the reason I came to London was to stop the Grinning Man's neferous doings, whatever they may be. But the first thing we need to do is to get you to someplace safe."

"He said he would return Jacob…"

"One thing I do know about him, ma'am, is the Grinning Man is evil and most definitely not to be trusted."

Margery, confused though she was by all this, saw that, of the two, they would be better off trusting Jack than the Grinning Man.

All three of them gathered whatever they need to bring along. They left the apartment, and began walking north up the street. Jack knew in what direction the nearest hotel lay. Millie asked him if the Grinning Man might not know where they were. Jack didn't think so; the Grinning man was not omniscient, at least not so far as anyone knew; and yet he had been able to know where he was, and somehow knew where Jacob's family were. He had another gadget on him, as he showed to the interested Millie, which he explained would make their presence unknown to any being that possessed preternatural senses. It was another small device, smaller in fact, then the energy vaporizer. It had a large blue button on it, which Jack pressed. Now, he explained to her, there was an aura around them that rendered them invisible to preternatural senses. Though Millie was unsure of what the word "preternatural" meant, even when he attempted to explain it.

Night had fallen and the streets appeared deserted. Far off they heard the chime of Big Ben, and the clatter of a coachman's carriage. The street lamps glowed eerily in the gloom, and the famed London fog had rolled in from the Thames, curling through the side streets and byways.

Jack knew criminals prowled the streets, though they'd seen no sign so far, and he remembered his laser pistol, should the need arise to use it.

They kept glancing furtively into the shadows. Even with the aura about them, Jack found himself imagining the Grinning Man materializing from the mist in front of them at every turn. And who knew? Jack didn't fully trust the devices he'd been given; perhaps the Grinning man could somehow track them. Or maybe he already knew that had left the apartment and was on their trail even now. He could tell that Emily and little Millie felt the same way, as each of them kept looking behind them, or down street corners, as though expecting a sinister shape to leap out at them.

Then, distantly, they heard the rolling clatter of carriage wheels. They felt no apprehension at first; the sound of the carriage was welcoming in that it indicated the presence of others on the streets.

But as he came clear that the carriage was coming in their own direction, Jack began to worry; could the driver, whoever he was have a purpose in following them. He doubted it, but still he wondered. Jack gripped Emily's hand, silently urging her and Millie to walk faster. They began to quicken their pace.

The sound of the clopping hooves and carriage wheels grew steadily louder. Jack could sense the woman and girl sharing his own apprehension as the vehicle and its unknown driver neared them. He considered having them duck into a nearby alleyway, but glancing behind them, he could see that the carriage was even now emerging, phantom-like, through the tendrils of mist. It was too late to hide from whomever it was, so he slowed their pace down. They began to walk calmly ahead, in the hope that they would not appear to be alarmed in any way.

But as they coach drew alongside them, the driver slowed, and then stopped.

They stopped too, all three of them illuminated in the light of a street lamp.

The coach was midnight black. Jack felt a lump grow in his throat, and felt a chill. There was nothing phantom-like about the carriage, now that it was out of the fog, and plainly visible in the lamplight, but he found himself thinking of a spectral carriage ghost-carriage, driven by Death nonetheless. Perhaps he'd read too many spooky novels set in the Victorian era.

The door to the carriage swung open. A tall man emerged and stood on the cobblestone street before them. Jack and the girls regarded him with apprehension. What the stranger wanted with them, he couldn't guess. But the man certainly did not appear sinister now that he could see him clearly. He was surely no criminal intent on robbing them, nor was he a constable, wondering what a man, a young woman and a small girl were doing on the streets at this hour.

No, he was a young man, rather tall, as I said, and handsome enough, with a clean shaven face, regular features, and coppery-brown hair, slightly wavy, and a tall hat. He also wore a saffron-colored cloak, a vest, and tight-fitting pants and stylish boots. He possessed the air and appearance of a young gentleman.

"My pardon," the young gentleman said, "I realize it may not be my business, and what are you three doing out of doors at this dreadful hour in the middle of London? Some calamity could easily befall you. I hope you realize that."

"We do indeed," answered Jack. And since he made no attempt to conceal his accent, he realized that the stranger, as it showed in his slight change in expression, realized he was no Londoner. "Truth is, some dreadful criminal may in fact be seeking to do all three of us a mischief at this moment. Maybe you can help us."

"I think perhaps I can at that. If that is so, I think I will take it upon myself to escort you to my home. Is that well enough with you?"

"It is," Jack answered, and Margery and Millie both nodded vigorously.

"Very well then," the stranger said, "Into my carriage at once."

The three of them crowded into the carriage, and they were off at once. The driver turned the coach around, and they headed back in the direction from which the coach had issued.

Had this man known they were here? Jack wondered. All at once, it occurred to him that perhaps he had done something very foolish indeed. This man, though he appeared a gentleman, and of virtuous character, might be something else entirely. But it was too late now. He was only too glad he still had his weapon with him.

But under the circumstances, he thought to appear as genial as possible was the best course of action. "By the way," he said, "I'm Jack Burton. I'm in London on business, but I ran into a bit of trouble with this criminal I mentioned. It seems he's involved with this family. This is Mrs. Margery Taggle and the small one is Millie. The father is in debtors prison, and the son…oh, I fear the son had been kidnapped and is the power of the very fiend to whom I gave mention.'

"My name," the young man said, "Is David Copperfield." One corner of his mouth turned slightly up in a sly half-smile as he looked at Jack. "I suppose you've heard of me."

"Why yes," said Jack, genuinely impressed," I certainly have," though he doubted severely it was in the manner which the esteemed Mr. Copperfield supposed!

"And I supposed you've read the latest chapter of my current novel in Bentley's," the young author said.

"I did happen to glance at it yesterday," Jack admitted.

"Ah, my life as a bestselling writer is not at all what you might expect, my friend," Copperfield told him. "And it's not the sort of life I'd expected either. You don't know the frustrations. Oh, not that I'd turn it down for an instant—it's my life. But the public demand. I scarcely imagined what it would be like, with them clamoring for more, more, more! And those plagiarists! They're everywhere, I tell you! You should see what they do to my work! And when they turn them into plays for the public with none of my consent! Oh, it's the most maddening thing ever. If I could just get those blackguards where I want them! But you said debtor's prison? Their father is there now?"

"That's right."

"Well, if you've read enough of my stories, or know anything about them, you know that I intend them-in part-as tools of social reform. My second novel attacked the chimney sweeps. If you've read my latest, I think you'll recognize, in addition to being my own most personal story to date, how it attacks those very wretched institution in which the unfortunate gentleman in case is imprisoned. I based the protagonist's father, Mr. John Dickens, on my own dear friend, Mr. Wilkins Micawber, who saw me through the hard times, and suffered through that very institution. I shall never forget him. I'm no member of parliament, but at least my novels do seem to having an effect on the public. I would have thought, by the way, that Margery and young Millie would have been with him in prison or that the son would have been sent to a factory, and perhaps Millie to the poorhouse."

"The circumstances are a little different, I'm afraid," said Jack. "But if I might ask, Mr. Copperfield, why did you stop to pick us up? Did you know we were there? I find that a little curious."

Mr. Copperfield was silent for a moment. Then he said, "The fact is, I received a telegram yesterday, telling that that there would a family in need in this area of London, and that man with a concern for the poor, such as myself, ought to be obliged to help. It was signed only with the initials I. E. Now, I don't anyone at all with those initials, so I'm completely in the dark as to who could have sent it. I don't suppose it was from you?"

"It wasn't," said Jack. But he thought he knew well that the telegram had to have been sent by the Department of InterDimensional Exploration. That's who sent it, he was certain!

It had to be them, which mean they were tracking him, and that knowledge made him feel relieved.

They had left the city proper, and had ridden a ways out into the country, when Mr. Copperfield leaned forward slightly to peer out the carriage window. Apparently, the young author had been alerted to the some presence along the road outside. And yes, now that he chanced to listen, Jack heard the sound of hoof beats, other than the carriage horses, outside. Copperfield tapped, signaling the driver to pull the coach to a halt.

Capperfield opened the door. Outside, they could see the form of a horse and its rider coming toward them. Copperfield stepped out of the carriage, and Jack followed him, apprehensive though he was of who might be on that horse. The two girls remained huddled into carriage, and perhaps for good reason, Jack thought. It might well be a highwayman or some brigand, come to rob them.

Copperfield, however, appeared to have judged the situation correctly, for Jack now saw that the rider was a young girl, of perhaps eighteen, on a dark gray horse. She wore a long dress of a well-born lady, and her long red hair blew in the wild wind which tonight was tearing across the moor like a banshee.

The girl drew her horse to a halt, a bit hesitantly; it seemed, in front of the carriage.

The coachman had dismounted, and now held a lantern up in front of them. All of them now could see the young girl's face. It was pale, and it was obvious that she was frightened.

"Girl! What you doing out here? Can you tell us?" the coachman asked her.

"Yes!" said Mr. Copperfield. "Are you alright?"

The girl glanced furtively behind her at the windswept moor, as though half-expecting an army of brigands to charge her. But if anyone had been pursuing her, the moor was now empty.

"No…no, I'm not alright! My young nephew's been kidnapped! Can you help me?"

"Certainly we can, or we'll try!" Copperfield said. "Someone kidnapped your nephew, you say? My word, what a night _this_ has turned out to be! Well, into the carriage, my dear! Or would you prefer to follow us on your mount?"

The girl at first appeared undecided on this but then she said. "I'll go with you, of course. Pepper, I'm certain, can find her own way home."

The girl dismounted, spoke some reassuring words to Pepper, then slapped the mare on her way. Jack and David helped her into the carriage. The coachman climbed up, cracked the reins, and once more hey were off.

"I implore you, sirs!" said the girl. "Please, I do need your help."

"Certainly," Mr. Copperfield said. "What is your name, my dear?"

"Maylie. Rose Maylie," she told him "I need someone to help rescue my dear young nephew, Oliver Twist!"

Interlude

The boy huddled in a corner, shivering.

Where he was, he didn't know, but it someplace he definitely did not want to be.

He was imprisoned in a house, of sorts, with only one room, and bare of any furnishings. But where the house was, he couldn't say, only that it seemed always night outside, and in the vast darkness, he could here sounds like the moaning of ghosts.

Or abandoned souls.

His right leg was chained to the floor.

The door opened and a sinister figure entered, his great cloak flapping and bat-like from his shoulders. The spectre Mr. Burton had called the Grinning Man.

And grin he did, this corpse-like giant, most sinisterly, his red-lit eyes reminding his captive that he was a creature more than and less than human.

Jacob Taggle looked up at him. "'Ow long you goin' to keep me 'ere Mister?"

"Until I have no further use for you."

"But I did what you asked! I got in through the pantry window. I got all the way up the stair to that fat bloke's room. I gave 'im the laudanum, like ya told me to! 'An I got out! Why can't I go home!"

"Yes, what a clever little urchin you are indeed. You did your work admirably, and because of that, I apologize for this. I did intend to let you go, but…I now realize I may need you, for bargaining. I sense that something has happened to the man they sent for me, the man who befriended you. He's placed an aura about himself, though, curse him, and I may have some trouble in tracking him this time."

"Bargaining?" asked Jacob close to tears.

"Yes! I may need to insure that Jack Burton does not get too involved. Unfortunately, he's still here, and may already be too immersed in my plans. If I'm right, that is. After I've taken care of him, then yes, you can go home, boy. But for now, just get used to it."

"Wh-where are we?" trembled Jacob. "What is this place?"

"I'd call it the underworld," grinned the Grinning Man, "This universe's version of it anyway. I happen to like this part of this particular part of this universe. It just seems so…_homey."_

"I don't understand," said Jacob wailingly.

The Grinning Man grinned again. "Don't try to understand boy. My work here is none of your concern. Only be patient, and I'll try to return you as soon as I can."

The apparition turned and whirled out into the darkness outside the threshold, the door slamming shut in his wake.

Young Jacob Taggle sunk his head onto his knees and wept.


	12. Chapter 14

13

Deep, throbbing pain greeted young Oliver's return to the waking world.

Next, the boy grew aware of hazy colors that swirled and gradually coalesced before his returning vision.

The colors assumed shapes and forms, the most prominent of which Oliver did not care to recognize. The yellow light which stung his eyes condensed into the form of its source, a candle which illuminated the tableau before him in its yellow-orange, wavering light.

The boy had not been knocked hard enough to cause serious injury, although the blow had made him lose consciousness briefly. Oliver's memories hazily returned. He was not safe and sound at his aunt's or at Brownlow's. He was very far from safe.

The ogre who was seated in the chair directly in front of where Oliver lay on his knees was horribly real. And as the features of the humpbacked man merged into hideous clarity, the overwhelming memory of his situation bloomed tremendously within Oliver's young breast.

Although he remembered very well what had happened to him and where he was, the boy drew a gasp of audible horror as he beheld the gloating hunchback. He heard the voices of the adult men around him chortle in response.

Rose! She'd been here, too, Oliver suddenly recalled. He'd been successful in turning their attention upon him and away from Rose.  
But-had his diversion enabled Rose to escape?

Oliver didn't know, and not knowing filled him with dread. The very thought of what these men might have done to her was a thing he couldn't even bring himself to contemplate. _She got away,_ Oliver assured himself desperately, _She HAD to have gotten away!_

The humpbacked man—what was his name? What had constable Flickart, the other two constables, called him—Quigle? Quigston?

"My name, my fine young lad," the humpbacked man said, "Is Mr. Zebedias Quigsnip. And you are now my captive to do with as I see fit. Do you understand, boy?"

Oliver nodded mutely, a faint whine escaping his lips.

"Good to see that you're already kneeling, boy. You're nothing but the penniless pauper whelp you always were. We're all of us your betters now, little Lord Fleming. And me? Thanks to my new business partner, I am soon to become far more than London's most celebrated crime-lord. I will soon virtually _rule_ London!"

_Your new business partner? _Oliver thought confusedly, still dizzy with pain. _Rule London?_

"But none of that is of any concern of yours. You cost me my entire crime network, and a fortune in goods-not to mention worse even than that—and you deserve a fate most special. And believe me young Oliver, I've taken the necessary pains to ensure that you receive one!"

"Let, _me_ kill 'im fer ya, Mister Quigsnip!" said a voice, thick with raw hatred. Oliver recognized it as that of Bludger. "I'd like nuthin' so much as to cut out this work'us brat's angel's heart right now!"

"Don't you touch him, Bludger!" Quigsnip warned. The glared around the room, and Oliver could sense, almost tangibly feel, the aura of fear that enveloped these adult rogues. "This is _my_ revenge! Mine to savor and enjoy to the fullest. Allow none among you to steal it from me!"

Oliver, his senses now cleared, glanced around the room at the brigands. In spite of the depth of his despair , the boy at last felt relief.

For Rose appeared to have escaped.

He saw no sign of her, nor any that these evil men had made any sport with her.

"I won't lie to you boy," Quigsnip told him, "If you're wondering about your dear aunt, yes, she did manage to escape—much as I'd relish seeing your reaction if you thought otherwise. But I will make certain that she won't get very far tonight." The hunchback reached to the side of him, and held up Oliver's fine velvet jacket, pants, and linen shirt. "Trust me, workhouse boy, you won't be needing these, anymore!"

Oliver realized then that he was dressed the same sort of ragged shirt and flimsy knee breeches he'd had to wear for most of his young life.

"Here," Quigsnip said, as he flung Oliver's clothes to Snerkins.

Oliver began slowly to weep. The clothes were his only remaining tie to the dear, warm, comfortable world of his friends and relatives.

Quigsnip smiled hideously, relishing the boy's anguish. "That's right, my sweet young friend. You'll never see those fine clothes again. It seems while the constables were bringing you to London, you got away, and tried to escape by jumping into the river. Unfortunately, you drowned, and tomorrow Vittles and Snerkins will present your uncle and guardian with the proof. Too bad your clothes were all they could recover."

The boy was openly sobbing in despair.

"I'm far from finished with you, boy," sneered Quigsnip, "I want you to meet someone from your past, lad, someone, who'd simply dying to get re-aquainted with you. He gestured toward a wooden door on the east side of the room. "He is waiting for you right now behind that very door. Care to guess who it is, my wonderful young lad?"

Oliver turned his eyes toward it in dreadful anticipation. It was an ordinary wooden door in commonplace wall. Yet the lurking dread that it concealed made the mere sight of it fill Oliver with the black horror of agonized expectancy. Who could possibly lurk in the room behind it? Perhaps the hunchback was merely sporting with him, playing a sadistic game. But no. Someone—or something—_did_ lurk just beyond its threshold! Oliver's twelve-year-old mind realized this truth with more clarity than any adult ever could.

A rogue's gallery of all the evil grownups who had made the boy's childhood a misery seemed to flash in front of him. Fagin, Monks, Bumble, Monks, and the rest of them. Fagin and Sikes were both deceased. The workhouse masters? The gentleman in the white waistcoat—Screed, that was his name, Oliver now knew—must be somehow in league with the hunchback and his cronies, but he couldn't imagine a man like him showing up here. Even Bumble and other parish overseers were more respectable than that. Or were they? Then Oliver's mind focused, once again on his half-brother. Monks—yes, it likely was him! Who else was it who hated him as much as Quigsnip did?

Oliver got shakily to his feet, trembling in dread expectation as to who or what that dreadful door would reveal. His face was now fixed, inexorably, upon it.

"Shall we show him, boys?" said Quigsnip.

There was rough laughter among the men once more.

"With pleasure, sir," said Bludger, whose spirits appeared to have risen once again. "May I do the honor Mr. Quigsnip, sir?"

"Most certainly you may."

The big man strode forward. Bludger reached out, grasped the nob and slowly turned it. Gradually, as though endeavoring to prolong Oliver's agony, he pulled the door open.

Oliver's breath caught in his throat.

The threshold it revealed appeared to be shrouded in darkness. Then Oliver made out a darker, adult-sized shadow among the other shadows. The form, which appeared to be seated, rose, and commenced toward the door.

As the man stepped through the door and into the wavering light cast by the candle's wavering glow, his features became clear.

Oliver was at first confused. He seemed to dimly recognize the man's harsh, wicked-cast features but no recognition came.

The man smiled at Oliver most unpleasantly.

"'Ello, my lad. Why, so it _is_ you, after all! Mr. Quigsnip promised you'd be all mine!"

And then recognition _did _come. And with it, a tide of horror which overwhelmed Oliver so completely that the boy very nearly lost consciousness once again.

For the man was none of other than Gamfield, the chimney-sweep to whom he'd very narrowly escaped apprenticeship to, after Oliver had dared to ask for more gruel. The same man because of whom Oliver had fallen on his pathetic knees and begged the board to spare him from.

Though Screed had expressed sadistic delight that Oliver might be shipped off with the villain, the rest of the board disapproved, and agreed to spare Oliver this fate.

Gamfield, the man who was now gloating at him horribly, had returned to claim him.

_No! It couldn't be happening! _

But it was.

"I'm very certain you'll enjoy the remainder of your young life as a chimney-sweep, Oliver," said Quigsnip. "I pulled some special strings to get him here. Mr. Screed informed me about how he wanted you before, but the board got soft-hearted on him and let you go. But you won't get away this time. Mr. Gamfield's other young charges are all dead now, Oliver. They're all rotting in their pauper-graves. 'An know what they all died of, Oliver? Of soot in their lungs, of suffocation—at least one lad got stuck in the chimmeny and they weren't able to get 'im out till the next day, and he was quite gone by then. Oh, what fun times you have ahead of you now, young Oliver. I'd wager they won't last long though, so enjoy 'em while you can. You'll be lucky to live to the age of sixteen."

"Ee's a right good boy, Mr. Quigsnip," Gamfield said. "Like I told yer, 'ee's nice and thin, just the right size to fit up those narrow chimely flues. Good thing the work 'us starved 'im, it is."

Oliver did next the only thing he possibly could have done then, other than collapse into a merciful faint. He fell back on his knees, and face buried to the floor, began literally to scream in anguish.

"_NOOO!_ "_Please! Pleeease! Don't' let that man take Oh, Pleeeese don't! No! No! Nooooo!"_

The boy continued to shriek and wail, begging them to beat the life out of him, chain him and drown him in the river, stave him to death, anything but send him away with that sadistic chimney sweep. The frail, angelic-looking child, prostrate on the floor, his small form wracking with sobs, would have reduced the densest rock to mush, he was so piteous. But this only proved that the hearts of Quigsnip and his cronies were harder by far than the hardest of stone. The men responded merely with cruel mirth, and Quigsnip and Gamfield appeared openly jubilent.

Vittles and Snerkins, though, looked a bit uncomfortable now. Both young constables, blackguards though they were, could merely glance about uneasily, as though wondering just what they'd got themselves into.

"So much fer this lad's nobility!" roared Bludger. "Just look at 'im grovel! HA! HA! HA!"

"Right!" said Gamfield "The boy's nothin' but a right little coward! Listen to the young porker squeal! Hahahahaha! Well, Mr. Quigsnip, you are goin' to let me take' im ain't you, sir? You ain't paying the lad any heed?"

"Of course you may take him, good sir." said the hunchback. "His screaming is bound to get tiresome after a while. Please do!"

"_NO!"_

The new voice had the sudden effect of silencing the entire company. Even Oliver ceased his agonized wailing and sat up, terribly alert. The voice belonged to a young woman. But it wasn't Rose, and for a second, Oliver was certain that it was Nancy, come back from beyond the grave to save him, even after he had inadvertently spelled her death.

The young woman, whom Oliver could see had long blond hair, had flung herself between him and Mr. Quigsnip. He only had a brief side-glimpse of her face. But there was something in the tone and tenor of her voice that made him recollect Nancy, even though, as he could see now, it wasn't her. He wasn't even aware that she'd been in the room before now, but she must have witnessed everything that had happened.

"Don't do this!" the young woman cried. "Let the poor boy go, I beg of you! He's been through enough! I-I'll even pay you for the boy's freedom!"

"Eloise!" said Quigsnip "The boy is none of your affair! And you know you can never pay me! Off with you girl!"

"Spare him!" Eloise demanded.

"If you don't keep quiet, girl—" Quigsnip began threateningly.

"_NO!"_ Oliver shrieked, springing to his feet. The men looked on, rather shocked, as the groveling boy now came to the defense of his benefactress. Oliver's blue eyes flashed fire as he confronted the hunchback fearlessly. "Do what you want to me! Even send me with that man, if you want! I'll go with him! Just don't harm _her!"_

Quigsnip regarded Oliver with mute stupefaction etched on his grotesque features for a few seconds. Then he said slyly, "Well, Oliver maybe you _do_ have a nobility beyond your years, just like they say. I've heard of the so-called courage you showed at the workhouse right enough! I must say it does impress though. You'd sooner become apprenticed to Gamfield than see this girl harmed, would you? I might even consider letting you go, young Twist, were I a different sort of man that I am! But rest assured, no harm will befall Eloise here. I wouldn't dream of harming my own niece, would I?"

Oliver only starred at him in youthful indignation, his small hands clenched into fists, breathing in and out—though any attack he might have made upon the monstrous Quigsnip could have had only one outcome.

"Take the boy away, Gamfield!" ordered the hunchback.

The chimney sweep seized Oliver by his left arm, and began dragging the boy in the direction of the door. "Come with me, boy," he guffawed loudly, "You've got much work ahead of you fer an apprentice!"

Oliver moaned piteously as the burly man dragged the poor orphan boy through the door and out into the windswept night.

For Oliver, once again, had become a wretched orphan, alone in the world, and tossed and pun upon the grim and grueling tides of Fate.


	13. Chapter 15

14

"Oliver Twist?" asked Mr. David Copperfield, stupefied. "You're talking about the workhouse boy from the papers!"

"Indeed, sir," answered Rose. "That boy is my nephew!"

"Well," Copperfield told her, "That is most surprising, young lady. Is the lad in trouble? I should hope that he is not. He's been such an inspiration to the Tories and the other reformers."

"I fear he is, sir. Terrible trouble."

"Then I believe that you should tell us all about it." Mr. Copperfield, realizing that he was immersed into a situation most dire, ordered the servants to see the children safely to bed, and also to make double-certain all of the windows and doors of the house were locked and bolted shut.

His wife, Agnes, affrighted of the situation, elected to stay up with the company. "Wh-what is it, David?" she asked "Who are these people? It's most unusual for you to come home from one of your readings surrounded by such visitors."

"I think we'll know who they are what is going on very soon," said David. "There's quite a story here I'm sure. Or stories, rather. First, young lady, will you tell us your tale? Start from the beginning, and relate that led you to being out alone on the moors tonight."

The grownups, were all seated in comfortable chairs around the fireplace hearth in drawing room. The wind moaned outside, rattling through the eaves. Little Millie Taggle remained on her mother's lip, caught up as they all were in these bizarre events. The mother and child glanced fearfully toward the partially drawn curtained window, not entirely sure the mysterious stranger with seemingly supernatural powers might appear there, safe though it seemed in the prosperous author's large house.

"I'm safe here," Rose told them. "If only Oliver were here as well."

Rose told them her story starting with the incident when she and Oliver had been visiting his mother's grave, and Oliver's uncle, Lord Peter Fleming, had announced his plans to make the boy his heir. She told them of how constable Flickart had attempted to prompt Oliver to identify a sketch of a man suspected of being an underworld crime lord, but upon seeing the sketch, Oliver had inexplicably collapsed into a faint. Flickart had insisted that the boy must know something, but Rose did not see how this was possible, as even the constable's roughing the boy up and threatening him produced no effect—and the fact, of course, that Oliver had never seen or heard of such a man—or at least that is what she had thought then. She told them about their invitation to Lord Peter's ball, and how Sir Bentley Drummle, a pompous young baronet, and a gentleman named Flintwick Screed had spoken against Oliver's being made heir to the barony. And how that very night someone had attempted to kill Drummle with laudanum, and how Screed, of all those present, had claimed to have recovered an ashen blond hair from Drummle's room, which he presented to the company as proof that the attempted murderer could only have been Oliver Twist. Drummle himself claimed he'd had a glimpse of a child, and heard a child's footfalls, but Rose knew it could not have been Oliver, and she strongly suspected Drummle of lying. Both Drummle and Screed wanted the boy to lose his inheritance, and apparently their plot had been successful, as the constables Snerkins and Vittles, supposedly there to oversee the party for young Oliver's protection, had arrested the boy. Supposedly, they were taking him to London to be tried before a magistrate. But then Rose told them how she had broken away from the company to secretly followed them for what must have been miles. They never reached London, but arrived at a small house by the river near Chertsey. Rose related how she had found Snerkins's pistol on the seat of his carriage—he'd left it in their haste to drag the struggling Oliver to the house.

"The house," she said, "I don't believe I'd seen it before. It was night, of course, but I was reminded of the house Oliver told us of, the one where Sikes took him on the night he made Oliver enter our pantry through the window. It was the same house where, Oliver said—"

Here her voice broke off, as though she were unable to utter another syllable.

"Well, go on," David encouraged, "What did Oliver say?"

"I'll tell you first what I found when I entered the house. The two constables had not locked the door, so jubilant they were, it seemed, that they had captured Oliver. I could tell, he must have been paid a heavy ransom to bring my nephew to this place."

"Who's 'he', my girl?"

"I-'d rather not speak of him, sir. But I will. I will, and I must. For Oliver's sake."

"Then, who?"

"Mr Quigsnip, sir. The man constable Flickart swore to us was a respectable man, but was really London's crime lord. He must have been behind the entire Fagin gang, sir. Only they never caught him, because no one suspected him." She choked back some sobs and then continued. "The place was crawling with villains sir. Roughnecks, criminals, I knew them to be. How the two young handsome constables came to be mixed up with them, I can't begin to guess. But I crept behind them, and I saw the man sitting in a chair in the center of the room. He was dreadful, sir, the most dreadful man I'd ever seen! He looked exactly, or very near the same, as the man in the sketch of constable Flickart's. Oliver had been brought before him. The constables were still holding my Oliver, and he was terrified. This man, this _Quigsnip_, for that is his name, was telling Oliver how they'd set him up!"

"So he admitted it!" Mr. Copperfield said. "Oliver's innocent! I knew he had to be."

"Of course he is. And yes, I heard him admit it with my own ears. I also heard him tell Oliver how he'd ruined his whole operation; cost him thousands of pounds, and how he'd have revenge now. He also said something about someone dear to him, and that I didn't understand. But I _knew_ then—I knew who Quigsnip was!"

"And—and who is he, my girl?"

Rose lapsed into sobbing again. For a moment the assembled company feared she would be unable to speak. Jack Burton felt genuine pity for the girl.

After several moments Rose could speak once again. "After Sikes made Oliver break into our house, he was so sick and weak for loss of blood. It took him weeks to recover, but when he did, Dr. Losberne took him on ride in the country. That was when Oliver thought he recognized the house by the river Skies took him to. Losberne impetuously entered the house, but it was not at all as Oliver described. And the man who lived there—"

"What, girl?" Copperfield prompted once again.

"He was a short, ugly humpbacked man. That is what Losberne told me, at least. He also said the man threatened that he would pay for his intrusion. And he eyed Oliver with so much vehemence, that my poor nephew—oh, he could not forget for months afterward. But I forgot it soon enough and I'd say in time we all did. The man seemed to have no relation to Fagin's gang. He was not among the thieves they rounded up. So I just supposed Oliver to have been mistaken, but…"

"He wasn't," Copperfield finished.

"He wasn't," the girl assented, "It was the same house they took Oliver to tonight, I'd swear to God that it was. And the man," she choked, "The humpbacked man. It had to have been him, Mr. Copperfield! It was the same man Oliver and Losberne encountered! Though I'd never seen him until tonight, I swear that this Quigsnip is the same man!"

"Then what happened?"

"I ordered him to let Oliver go! I was leveling the pistol at them. I would have shot them, too, I surely would, before my Oliver would come to harm. But a big man knocked the pistol out of my hand before I could fire. They—they were coming for me, next I knew! I dread to imagine what they would have done! But Oliver—Lord bless him, he saved me! He attacked the large man who was attacking me, and bit his ear. I took the opportunity, and escaped. I-I feel like I've abandoned Oliver. But there was nothing more I could do." Here she lapsed into a fit of uncontrolled sobs.

Mrs. Copperfield did her best to comfort her, and the maid appeared and offered to fix them all tea, which David bid her to do.  
Jack noticed that Mrs. Taggle and little Millie seemed more distressed than ever by the girl's story, and two looked fearfully toward the window's once world, as though fearing what might lurk out in the world beyond, even though nothing about anything Rose had said seemed to pertain to them. Jack, however, was not so certain that connection could not be drawn between the events the girl had described, and his own affairs.

Elsewhere in the house, the servants had finished putting the confused children safely into bed, and where now engaged in making certain the windows were all shut and locked. They were in the business of testing an locking all the windows of the rooms on the second floor, when, in the split second before one of the servants pulled the gossamer curtains closed, there appeared in the window frame a visage so otherworldly and so truly hideous that the man, already in the process of drawing shut the drapes, leapt back with an involuntary cry.

"What is it?" demanded his companion.

"At the window!"

"What at the window, you oaf?"

"There was someone there! I saw him!"

"On the second floor?" the man rushed to the window, and looked out. The face, if it had been there at all, had vanished. "How could a man get up here? There's no means of access on this side of the house, save for some old dried vines that could not hold the weight and girth of a climbing man."

"Perhaps he used the drainpipe."

"Don't be daft. There's no drainpipe here."

"But—"

"Come, let us get back to work!"

Once the maid had brought in tray and handed everyone a silver cup of steaming tea, Rose asked, "Well? Can any of you help me?"

"I don't know," David Copperfield said. "Since you witnessed where they took Oliver—and you say you heard him confess to setting the boy up?—they'll be coming after you. Whatever plans they have for the boy, they'll need to silence any witnesses."

"That is true. There were people following me tonight, I know it. But it's Oliver I care about. I need to save him!"

"Then we've got to protect you, first." said Copperfield. "You're a witness to their crime, and so long as we can keep you safe—"

At that precise moment, there sounded the terrified scream of an adult man from somewhere upstairs. The terror in the voice was unmistakable.

"That's John Watkins, one of my trusted servants," said Copperfield. He arose from his chair, as did they all, in fearful anticipation of what had taken place in the darkness of the rooms above the ascending staircase. Copperfield thundered up the stairs with Jack Burton and then Rose not far behind. Agnes and the Taggles remained in the drawing room, listening fearfully as another horrified cry sounded from somewhere above them.

The voice cried out yet again, and this time it formed coherent words. "At the window! I saw it! I saw it!"

Copperfield and his companions, following the sounds of the cries burst into a darkened room. Copperfield quickly turned on a kerosene lamp. Two men were standing in the room, neither one harmed, but both of them appearing in a state of much distress.

"John, John, whatever is the matter?" asked Mr. Copperfield.

"I saw someone at the window!" cried the man addressed as John Watkins. "Out there, in the night! Someone was peering in at us. His face was white—white like a corpse! And his eyes were-"

Here the man fumbled.

"His eyes? What about his eyes, man?"

"His eyes were red sir. They were the color of burning embers._ Crimson_ embers, like as they had fire behind them."

"Really?" asked Mr. Copperfield, a hint of doubt in his voice.

"He's said that twice, now!" complained the other man. "John saw a face at the window in the other room! He must be taking something."

"I'm…not sure," said Copperfield. What Watkins had reported seemed to defy rationality. Yet the events of the night had taken such bizarre twists and turns that a plunge into sheer phantasy didn't seem quite so beyond the pale. "Just make sure all the windows are locked."

"Yes, sir, Master Copperfield."

Copperfield turned to address the man who called himself Jack Burton—only to find that the man's face had gone white. Burton's expression remained stoic-or at least, it seemed he was struggling to keep it so—but something had occurred which had evidently caused all the blood to drain from the man's face.

"Man…are you alright?"

"Yes…I think so." Jack said.

"Perhaps I should get you a drink."

He escorted Jack and Rose back downstairs to the main drawing room. He went and fetched jack a bottle and glass of sherry, which Jack quickly gulped down. Once they were again all seated in a semi-circle near the fireplace, Copperfield said, "Are you well? I do hope that upstairs incident didn't' upset you. I don't know, honestly, what the man actually saw, but—"

"Never mind, Mr. Copperfield, sir," said Jack. "I rather think that I can supply the answer. I fear it actually."

"Then why don't you start by telling us how _you_ came to be here tonight."

"Alright," Jack told him. "I'll tell you exactly that. But first, let me explain something to you all. I need you all to know why I came to London. Why I am here. And for you to understand that you must first realize that I am not from America, as I you may have deduced from my accent. At least, not the America of which you are familiar."

"No? Well, I tell you, I've been to America, and yes, I did rather suppose you were from there, although now that I consider it, there is something about your accent I couldn't place. So you're not from the _country_ of America, I gather, but—"

Jack waved his hand. "Look. Promise me that you'll make every effort to consider what I'm about to tell you—for it stretches credibility well past the breaking point I'm afraid." Here he took another swallow of sherry. "I'm not about to have you report me as a madman. I know how they treated the mentally handicapped in this time and place. Conditions are appalling in such institutions both here and overseas."

"Very well, I'll hear you out. And I won't report you, I promise, even if I am convinced that your condition warrants it. Conditions in the asylums—I know about them. In fact, the next novel I'm about to write has to do with those mad and accused of being mad and how the system maltreats them. So continue."

Jack looked about the company, attempting to read the expressions on the faces of those assembled here. He was unable to do so. At last he continued. "You may not realize this, Mr. Copperfield, but the America I come from is in another world. A whole other universe, technically. I know people of your time have not yet invented the concepts of "alternate realities" or "string theory" or such forth. But my own world has advanced technologically far beyond yours. We are able to travel backwards and forwards in time, so long as we do not attempt to tamper with history. And we often travel what we call sideways—that is, travel to other realities, alternative histories existing side by side _ad infinitum_, throughout the cosmos. They're pretty weird, some of these alternate histories. On some, magic works. On some things like ghosts exist. And we've found a small number of alternate worlds that, well, are based on…what certain famous authors from my own world have created."

All of those seated in the Copperfield drawing room had his or her eyes fixed squarely upon him. Still, he could not read their faces. But he held everyone's rapt attention.

"Do any of you think you are real? Well, here, in this reality, you are, that's certainly true enough. But where I come from, you're nothing more than ink on paper. Figments of a writer's imagination, nothing more. The writer who created this reality lived in my world in the nineteenth century, and his name was Charles Dickens."

David Copperfield raised his hand. "I'm afraid I must stop you there. I'm sure you mean well, and maybe you actually believe whatever you're attempting to tell is the truth, but if you're referring to the character in my latest novel—"

"I don't suppose you intend to make him a writer, the same as yourself?" Burton asked.

"Well…" said Copperfield, wondering how the man knew. "I must admit I considered it."

"It seems crazy to me as well," admitted Burton, "But in my world Charles Dickens is very real. And he happened to write _your_ biography, not the other way around. I already know all about you, Mr. David Copperfield."

"Man, I'm not really sure—"

"Let me guess," said Burton, "When you were young, your mother married an appalling man named Mr. Murdstone. He sent you to an academy run by a sadistic headmaster named Mr. Creakle. Your aunt Betsy Trotwood took you in and named you 'Trotwood Copperfield.' You had dealings with a fraudulent person named Uriah Heep, who falsely accused your old friend, the dear Mr. Micawber. Oh, I could go on and on and on with this."

Mr. Copperfield's eyes had now grown large and wide. "Mr. Burton, sir, I don't know how you happened to learn all about my past, but—"

Jack Burton held up his hand. "I'm not finished sir. This author, who resides in the world you have created—my world—also authored a novel called _Oliver Twist, _also called_ The Parish Boy's Progress_. I've read it, cover to cover. And he named the character of Fagin, the Jewish fence who leads young urchins into crime, after his old friend Bob Fagin, the boy who befriended him at Warren's Blacking Factory."

"On the contrary," Copperfield said. "I named the character of Bob Fagin, young Charles's friend, on the leader of the Fagin gang—who is a real man, as you and I both know."

"I can prove what I'm telling you is real," Burton said, and here he reached into his coat pocket, and, to the amazement of all, drew forth another strange device. It was long and black, but small enough to be held in his hand.

All the company was gazing at it in rapt wonder. Burton flipped a small switch, and the screen on it came to life, lighting up in bluish luminescence. The company gasped in awe as Burton turned the device in their direction, and held it around for all to see.

"Now," he said, as he punched in letters the devices console. "I've got the complete texts of thirty thousand books on here. And here it is-the complete text of Dickens' _Oliver Twist!"_

He stood up and held the screen around for all to see, especially Rose. "Now," he said sitting back in his chair, and scrolling down the screen. Then he punched two buttons and pressed the 'enter' key. "here we are. Chapter thirty-two. And of the humpbacked man it says here, _"__he looked into the carriage, and eyed Oliver for an instant with a glance so sharp and fierce and at the same time so furious and vindictive, that, waking sleeping, he could not forget it for months afterwards."_

A small short gasp arose from the throat of young Miss Maylie upon hearing the words Burton read.

"Go on," Jack said, "Read it yourself. This is the entire story of your nephew. You'll find it all here. I'll need to show you how to use the scroll button, but it's all here. Everything. His entire history, up until you and Mr. Brownlow formerly adopted him."

Rose might have thought him mad, but Burton saw at once that she didn't. The young woman looked very pale, as though she had entered a trance. "Get it… get it away.." she murmured finally. "I-I don't want to read it."

He placed the device back in his pocket.

"I any event," he said, "This man who's captured your Oliver, who intends a savage revenge upon the boy, appears to be character Dickens intended to write out of his story. He appears in the chapter 32, an unnamed enigma, then vanishes utterly. Dickens may have intended to have a larger part in the story, perhaps even a nominal connection with Oliver's past. In fact, from what Rose tells me, he may have intended him to be a major villain, the master puppeteer behind Fagin's gang. But for some reason, he decided to simply write him out of the story—perhaps because he felt he was too evil. Or perhaps it was because Oliver had already been through two periods of captivity, and he didn't want to subject him to further any cruelty, especially at the hands of such a monster. But write the villain out he did. That was why you never heard of him again."

The wind moaned eerily once more outside the window. Branches scraggled against some distant window pane.

"The entity I am seeking is called the Grinning Man," continued Burton to his rapt listeners. "To be honest with you all, I'm not at all certain just what he is. He may be a ghost, or a vampire, or something similar. But he is able to move between worlds without any tunneler device, though some worlds seem easier for him to break into than others. He appeared to pose no threat to the so-called story worlds, until we discovered them. But anyway, he is here right now in this London—your London—and I believe that he has somehow brought Dickens' unfinished plot involving the hunchback character to life." He looked directly at Rose. "Rose, you must listen to me. I don't think that you or your nephew were ever meant endure what has happened to you. Oliver was meant to live a happy and prosperous life at the end of Dickens' novel. What is now happening was never meant to occur. It is the work of my enemy the Grinning Man. I'm afraid that there's more at stake, though, than the life of young Oliver Twist. The future history of this world is in danger of being crucially altered. And if we don't act soon—"

"I think for now," said Mr. Copperfield, "we should all go off to bed. My servants will show you all to your bedchambers, and tomorrow we will discuss this matter further."

At that moment there came the sound of breaking glass.

Followed by the screams of children.

The company stared mutely, but The sound had come from upstairs.

David recognized the sound as coming in the general direction of the children's room.

He dashed up the stairs. Burton whipped out his laser pistol and followed, Rose behind him. This time, Mr. Taggle remained behind, but Agnes raced ahead, fearing for her children.

David burst into the children's room. The curtains were blowing in a chill autumn wind which rushed remorselessly into the room.

Young William and Dora were wide and awake and crying. "_Daddy!"_ they screamed as they ran to David and flung their arms around their father. He clasped his arms around them both, hugging them tightly to him. They were safe. But-

_But Betsy! Where was Betsy!_

Jack Burton, his weapon drawn, approached the window. It was shattered, glass on the floor. Glinting like sharp-edged diamonds.

"Betsy!" cried David, getting down on eye-level with the two children and shaking them."Where is your sister?"

William, weeping, pointed toward the open window. "The ghost took her!" he cried.

"A _ghost_ took her?" asked David frantically.

The boy nodded. "A big scary ghost-man with a white face and red eyes."

They all stared out the window into the darkness.


	14. Chapter 15part2

15

"The Grinning Man!" exclaimed Jack Burton.

"Who?" asked Copperfield.

"The Grinning Man—the creature I told you about. He's already captured young Jacob Taggle. Now he's got your Betsy!"

In rage, Copperfield seized Jack by the throat, rammed him up against the wall. _"Who are you man! Who are you! Don't lie to us, this time! Tell me!" _

The young author was stronger than he looked. Jack was unable to break his hold on him. "I….I told you!" he gasped.

"_YOU LIED! Tell us who you are really! WHO is this Grinning Man! What's he done with my Betsy? Tell me, before I kill you!"_

"HAHAHAHAHHAHAAAAA"

The booming laughter seemed to have descended out of nowhere. Millie squealed. Margery and Agnes screamed. Copperfield released his grip on Burton and whirled around.

Everyone in the company was now staring in abject fear.

A few feet away from them stood the Grinning Man.

He appeared to be nearly seven feet tall, as though he was capable of altering his physical height, and had grown a few inches—or perhaps it was some eerie distortion of the moonlight streaming through the broken window, and it mingling with the shadows. He wore a great black cloak, an almost unnatural midnight color, draped about him like a monstrous bat's wings. His crimson silk neckerchief almost shown in the moonlight, and this color was repeated in the hellish red glow of the fiend's eyes. He wore a great stove-pipe hat of black silk upon his head, matching his cloak. His face, the color of a pallid slug, was most terrifying, for the expression it wore. For the Grinning man was grinning. His fearsome teeth were splayed in an awful expression of elation.

The company could only stare, unable to quite believe in the reality of the being that stood before them in the room as the mixture of moonlight and shadow played over the creature's hideous countenance.

And held firmly within the creature' s right grasp, thrashed and kicked little Betsy Copperfield, her screams muted by the cold, white fingers that covered her mouth.

"_Betsy!"_ David shouted. The young author rushed the monstrous creature holding his daughter. The entity simply raised one dead-white palm. Copperfield was pushed off his feet and sent heurling back, as though from the force of an unseen gale to crash into the wall.

"NO!" shouted Jack. The man stepped forward, a small device in his hand, which he leveled at his foe.

The Grinning Man laughed again, awfully. "You actually think that will work, don't you, Jack Burton, foolish man of Mainstream Earth? None of your ill-conceived technology can affect me!"

Jack heard the women and children moan in terror.

Still, though he felt his soul shrivel as he stared upon the apparition's burning gaze and savage smile, he kept his gaze trained upon his monstrous adversary.

Leveling his weapon, his thumb found the button and pressed it. A dazzling, pink ray shot forth from the device, striking the Grinning Man square in the chest.

The apparition staggered back for a moment, and for a bare instant, Jack dared to suppose he might have injured the creature. But the Grinning Man recovered in an instant, and his grasp remained as firm as ever on young Ms. Copperfield.

The monster chortled again. Then he held up his hand. A tremendous, invisible force struck jack with tidal wave force. He was lifted off his feet and sent crashing to the floor.

The weapon flew from his grasp to clatter across the floor.

Winded, jack gasped as he struggled to sit up and face his adversary.

"Remember this!" the Grinning man raised. "I have intentions with this world. And I'll have none of your interference. My insurance, Mr. Burton and Mr. Copperfield, is right here!" He thrust young Betsy Copperfield out in front of him, maintaining his dreadful grasp on her. The girl screamed_." Mommy!" _Betsy wailed.

Mrs. Copperfield gave a wail of anguish and rushed forward. David swiftly caught his wife by her wrist. "_No!_ He'll only take you both!"

"Let me go!" Agnes shrieked. "I won't let him take my daughter." She wrenched a small wooden cross form about her neck and thrust it forth at the monster holding the girl. _"In the name of the Lord, release my daughter, creature!"_

The Grinning Man continued to grin horribly at them. "I am no vampire, woman, nor to such beings inhabit your world. It is true, I am unable to_ touch_ a rood, but the sight of it has no effect, and you will die horribly before you get close enough to touch me with it."

Mrs. Copperfield now only stared at the Grinning Man in mute horror at the creature's words. Here truly was a creature of the night, a living breathing Horror, and her mind was barely able to comprehend the reality. It would have been better had the creature told her that the cross was a useless symbol, and would have no effect.

"What I want is cooperation," continued the Grinning Man, "from all of you. Mr. Burton, I know you care about these people—about their entire world, do you not?"

Burton, who had shakily regained his feet, only stood there glowering.

"I thought you did. Good. Then stay out of my way, or our dear Mr. Copperfield shall never see his daughter again."

"_No!"_ screamed Agnes, agonized, reaching out toward her daughter.

Betsy was weeping now, tears rolling down her cheeks as wriggled in the monster's grip, reaching out toward her mother.

And then someone flung salt in the Grinning Man's face.

The fearful apparition reeled backward, as though struck by lightning, an inhuman cry escaping from his throat. This time, his grip on the child loosened enough for Betsy to twist free and dash to her mother.

Agnes scooped her up into her arms sobbing. The Grinning Man roared, as though form agony.

For several seconds, Burton was unable to comprehend what had occurred. Then he saw that a thin scraggle-haired woman, one of Copperfield's maids who must have entered the room when everyone's attention was fixed upon the bizarre being and his captive, was now pointing frantically at the stricken Grinning man and was yelling, "Salt! Salt! He can't take salt! Quickly, make a circle around him! Do it now!"

Burton, his mind dazed, was at first unable to comprehend what she was ordering. Then he saw that she was grasping a vial of table-salt, and that she had tossed another to Mr. Copperfield.

Copperfield appeared to have grasped the urgency of her meaning sooner, as he and the maid were, in the next instant, pouring salt form the vials onto the floor, each of them moving away from the other in a circular fashion, creating a circle of salt about the Grinning Man, who had fallen on his knees and was pawing at his face in agony, and was emitting shrill banshee-like screams.

The shrieks of the apparition tore at their ears and were disturbing in the extreme, but Jack regained his feet and moved to help them.

But the Grinning man was now entirely imprisoned by a circle of harmless-seeming table salt. Burton, Copperfield and the maid stood outside the circle, gazing at the agonized creature.

"It looks like you've found his Achilles Heel," Burton told her.

"How-how did you know-?" Copperfield began.

"I didn't, not fer certain," she said. "But I know that salt's an element of _purity_, sir. Or didn't you know? That's why you always toss some 'oer yer raht shoulder fer luck. It used to work to keep ghosts, banshees, and other dark creatures at bay back in olden times."

"I've heard the same," Burton said, genuinely astonished. "But it never occurred to me that it might actually _work!"_

"But that's nothing but superstition!" exclaimed Copperfield.

"Oh, is it now?" said the maid. "All due respect sir, but is not _that _–" here she pointed dramatically again at the Grinning Man, " nothing but superstition as well? Creatures of darkness are not supposed to exist. But well—there one is, in your own good home, sir!"

"But the cross had no effect upon him." Jack said.

"True, but he did say that he couldn't touch it," murmured Copperfield, in hushed, disbelieving tones.

_Salt effective against dark creatures?_ thought Burton.

What manner of creature _was_ the Grinning Man?

But those were questions to ponder at a later date.

The Grinning Man continued to moan in pain, covering his face with his cloak.

"Quickly! Give me our cross!" Jack said, snapping his fingers at Agnes. He snatched the rood form her and advanced toward the creature.

Gingerly, Jack stepped within the circle of salt. Copperfield and the his maid drew back.

Jack lowered his arm, bearing the cross in his grasp, toward the cowering Grinning Man.

In a flash, the creature drew the cloak from his face with a snarl. Burton nearly jumped back, but held his ground.

His bizarre adversary glowered up at him. The entity was no longer grinning, but bared his teeth ferociously nevertheless. Jack saw that the creature's flesh was now ruined; the dead-white flesh of his face appeared to have run together like candle-wax. One eye looked sealed shut, but the other, apparently entirely undamaged, glared balefully up at him. This orb had lost its crimson glow, however; now it was pale yellow in coloration, with a slightly red rim encircling it, a tiny black pupil in it center, which glared up at him in absolute malice.

Jack, fearful for a moment that the creature might spring up and tears his throat out with that fearsome array of fangs, thrust the cross at him again, and this time the monster did react slightly fearfully. Burton barked over his shoulder to Copperfield and the maid. "Get some ropes! Hurry, man, while I've got him covered."

It was Agnes and Betsy, accompanied by the Margery and her daughter, who unfastened the bedroom curtains, while Jack, David, and the maid stood guard over their monstrous captive.

The ring of salt not only kept the monster imprisoned, but it apparently nullified his dark powers.

And his own, very high tech weapon lay on the floor like useless piece of metal.

As Jack continued to keep the monster at bay, they swiftly bound his arms behind his back and his legs together with the thick silken cords. Jack gingerly pressed the tip of the cross against the sleeve of the creature's coat. The monster moaned, partly in obvious fear of the object, but mostly, it seemed in rage. The cross seemed to have no further affect upon him, however. When Burton next held the rood menacingly near the creature's damaged face, the Grinning Man drew back in fear. Burton stood back, a light smile of amusement on his face.

He draped the cross about the Grinning Man's neck.

The monster gave vent to a howl of furious rage that filled the room

Jack leapt back out of the circle. The captive creature continued to shriek and howl, until, his rage seemingly spent, the Grinning man spoke.

"You've captured me!" the creature raged. "But you can't hold for long! No mortal can!"

"We'll see about that," said Burton. "Now—tell us, what are your plans for this world? What have you done with Jacob Taggle!"

"If I tell you," rasped the beast," You may still do nothing, for a chain of events has already been set in motion!"

Burton knew it was a lie, or the creature would not have attempted to kidnap Betsy, would not have already kidnapped young Jake Taggle. "Tell us," he repeated calmly, "and maybe, _maybe _ I'll free you from that cross."

"Oliver Twist!" raved the monster "Young Oliver Twist! That boy is doomed! I have made certain that the lad shall already lose all his fortune, all his inheritance, not to mention his pristine reputation. Quigsnip, London's crime Lord shall effectively rule London! Oh, the plan is so beautiful. Young Oliver has been framed for the attempted murder of a pompous young baronet named Drummle. is now, at this moment apprenticed to chimney sweep name of Gamfield! And none there are who have survived his apprenticeship! And Jacob Taggle? I've got him captive in the Dickensverse version of the Underworld! Now—man of Mainstream Earth, release me from this tiny wood implement! DO IT! I know you're man of your word, eh?"

"I'll do it," said Jack Burton,"After we save young Jacob, after we see this business of Quigsnip, after we restore to Oliver Twist whatever's you've taken from him!"

" Won't do it!" snarled the grinning Man, though he was grinning no longer. "You won't, future man!"

"Come with me, Copperfield," Jack said to David, "We have two children to save!"

"But what if this fiend?" Mr. Copperfield said. "I'll not leave this creature tied up in my house."

The three Copperfield children were wailing. Little Betsy was clinging to her father.

"You're right," Jack told him. "I cannot leave him in your house. My job was to apprehend this fiend before he caused anymore havoc in this universe. He must be removed as soon as possible. But I'll return, to this precise time if I am able, as soon as I finish with him. I mean to help correct whatever havoc he has caused so far, such as this business with Mr. Quigsnip."

"You intend to return to this precise time?" Copperfield asked.

"Well, as near as I can manage. I don't to encounter my former self, so it shall somewhat after this very moment."

Everyone watched in rapt wonder as Mr. Burton, still armed with the vial of salt, stepped into the circle with the subdued Grinning Man, took a small device out his pocket, and pressed a button. It was the tunneler that Jacob Taglle had stolen soon following his arrival here. Instantly a shimmering, blue, and translucent wall of sparkling light shot up to create a dome over Burton and his captive.

In the next moment, they were gone.

For several eternally long seconds, the Copperfield family, Rose, the servants and the Taggles could say nothing. Then they began to murmur amongst themselves. It must be witchcraft, more witchcraft, insisted Mrs. Taggle. Rose didn't know what to believe.

David was uncertain what had just occurred, or, in fact if the events of the past hour _had_ in fact occurred. It all seemed like the effects of a dream, with fantasy piled on fantasy.

"What should we do now?" wondered the maid.

"I-I'm not sure,"he said.

Just as Copperfield had finished speaking the shimmering blue dome returned. Tow figures stood within. One the onlookers recognized as Jack Burton. The other was a gentleman whom none of them recognized as familiar.

The blue dome disapated and the two men walked over to the company.

The stranger was of medium height, had dark hair and a mustache. He wore what looked to be a troubled expression, and unlike Burton, appeared at least as bewildered as everyone else in the room. He wore fine clothes and appeared of genteel social status.

There was no sign of the Grinning Man.

"Mr. Copperfield," said Mr. Burton, "I'd like to introduce a new friend of mine. Meet Mr. Edgar A. Poe!"

"Mr. Poe!"exclaimed Mr. Copperfield. "I've read you works! They are remarkable! Eh…you really are Mr. Edgar A. Poe, from America? Frankly, I'm finding this most difficult to absorb."

"I am the man you speak of," said Mr. Poe, in an American accent. "But…I don't believe I know you?"

"David Copperfield, sir," David said. "I'm certain you've heard of me, as well."

"No, sir, I don't believe that I have," said Mr. Poe, "But Mr. Burton here has told me something of you. You are a writer, are you not? A British novelist…rather like an aquiantence of mine."

The two gentlemen from differing worlds were engaged in shaking hands when Jack Burton said,"We've got work to to do. And I believe Mr. Poe may be the one to help is a bit of an amature detective, and he may be able to help the constables find out what has become of young Oliver. MR. Poe?"

"I'm..I'm not really sure what I can do," Mr. Poe said, "But I think I know the problem here in general."

"The problem is my nephew!" exclaimed Rose. "He's been kidnapped by a ghastley man and his gang of feids."  
Mr. Poe looked at her sharply." You…you must be Rose Maylie. The boy's aunt." He spoke in a awed, dreamy sort of voice.

"Thatt's right, although I am more sister to him than aunt. If you may help us, sir, please do.'

"I"ll do what I can," said Mr. Poe.

"But we can't stand here!" said Mr. Copperfeild. "First, let's send for the constable." Though in truth, he knew not how the constable would react to the current situation.

"No, wait!" said Rose. "Some of the constables are on his side! Two of them were in the home of this man, Quigsnip, I told you! We should all go to the house of my and Oliver's uncle—Mr. Brownlow. He's not really our uncle, but I so often think of him as. Surely he'll know what to do!"

After some debate, Copperfeild, Burton, Rose and Mr. Poe decided to venture to Brownlow's. The Taggles, Rose, Agnes and the Copperfield children were accompany them in three other servents remained bhind, But Copperfeild sent for an entire police force to oversee the house in his absence.

Once they were on their way, and Mr. Copperfield, Mr. Burton and Mr. Poe were riding in the same coach,the young author said to Mr. Burton," I trust you'd taken care of that fiend you call 'The Grinning Man'?

Burton was silent for a moment. Mr. Poe, who still remained seeming curiously disraught by this whole situation, remained silent.

"Well?" Copperfield pressed.

"I didn't exactly turn him in," said Burton. "He escaped, you see."

"_What?!"_

"You heard me right."

David's face darkened. For a moment it looked to Jack as though he were about to attempt strangle him once more. Copperfield said, "Tell me that monster, whatever he si, will not return to menace my children or Agnes."

"I…don't believe he will." Jack told him.

Copperfield was not reassured of their safety by Jack's voice. "Guarantee that he will NOT!"

"I can guarantee nothing," Jack said. "But hear me out first. Here is how it happened…"


	15. Chapter 16

16

Jack Burton was traveling through the ether, the substance between the Story Worlds. He was sealed in his protective bubble—sealed in with the Grinning Man now his captive.

What manner of creature or being the Grinning man was, he still did not know.

The monster, still bound by the nylon bed-cords stole a glance up at Jack-and _grinned._

Jack looked away uncomfortably.

"So you think you've finally caught me?" the creature asked.

"Yes," said Jack. "Whatever you are, I've finally caught you."

"Don't think it will make the inhabitants of the world we just left safe, even if you have," the Grinning man said. "The seeds of chaos that I've shown there have already taken rot, and are sprouting rapidly."

Jack looked away, said nothing.

"You know the young boy named Oliver Twist? I've done enough to ensure his reputation is ruined forever."

Jack knew that this man—if he could be called that—was merely taunting him. It was difficult not to listen, as the creature's voice was disturbing to say the least. It was also still difficult to think of Oliver Twist as a real person. But he'd already seen and experienced the truth about the Literature Worlds. The Dickens verse was real, as were its inhabitants from out of Dickens' stories.

"The boy is going to die a terrible death," the Grinning Man said, "And all London will become under the rule of a man scarcely more charitable than I am! It matters not what you do to me.

The energy bubble fizzled and vanished. Jack and his captive saw that they were standing in the center of the Hall of Literature at the center for Interdimensional Exploration. He saw that the Dickens painting stood on the wall to their right. Every one of these oil paintings he realized, were really gateways to other worlds, every one of them.

And they lined the entire length of the vast hall.

The president was walking towards them. Jack had known this man of fifty-plus years every since he was employed here. But this was the first time he read the look of utter astonishment on the man's face.

"Jack—the computer picked up your presence, and I knew you'd be here. But this other person—is that-?"

"It's him," Jack announced to his employer. "I've captured the Grinning Man."

The president walked cautiously around Jack and his captive, his astonished eyes upon the Grinning Man.

The creature had a dead-white face, now seemingly partially ruined by the salt crystals—but this, unnerving, as jack mentally noted, was now showing signs of recovering. The skin of the creature's face now seemed to have mended somewhat. The creature was glowering up balefully with eyes, once a hellish crimson, now a choleric yellow.

The president was still aghast. "How…how did you do this."

"I didn't," Jack said, "Not exactly. Some people I was helping did it."

The president looked at jack shaprly. "You mean some inhabitants of the Dickensverse captured him."

"Well, yes. And you're right. Everything about these worlds really is true. You won't believe it but, but I actually met David Copperfield!"

"Oh, I believe it, Jack," said the president nonchalantly. "But—this creature! I really don't know what to do with him now. But we must keep him contained until we found out what his powers are, and how he can travel from world to world, without any of our devices."

"You are fools!" rasped the Grinning Man, "You will never contain me."

"Let us be the judge of that," the president said, though Jack tell that the man was a bit unnerved by the creature's voice.

Jack didn't blame him.

"What—what sort of creature are you?" the president asked the Grinning Man.

"Ah, you will never know," The Grinning man told him.

The president looked sternly at Jack. "How did they capture this monster."

"Copperfield's maid threw salt in his face," Jack said. "And then we tied him with ropes, and put that cross over his neck."

"What?" the president almost grinned, "You mean to say that they actually subdued him with the traditional means of stopping vampires?"

"I wasn't sure that you—"

"Oh, I'm well-versed in vampiric folklore, Jack.I also know—as do you—that there's no truth in it. And whatever this creature may be, he can't be a vampire, because there simply is no such thing."

"Yes, that's right," Jack said. "In our world, at any rate. But I've just experienced first hand that there are other worlds that appear somehow to be literally crafted by the imaginations of authors in our own world!"

"Get to the point."

"Well, in some of those worlds, I'm sure, vampires would need to be real. Bram Stoker's_ Dracula_ immediately springs to my mind."

"We've never known any being to travel _between_ worlds Jack. And the Grinning Man has been to other times and worlds totally unconnected with the Literature worlds. And I'm sure you're famiair with the very-well founded theory that our own universe serves a nexus for the Literature Wolrds. This hall should serve as evidence."

"Yes, but—"

The president waved his hand. "I cannot go ito the details," he said, "but there are a thousand reasons why this creature could not have originated in any of the Literature worlds."

"I'm not so sure."

"Rubbish," said the president, "no matter how much this creature appears or behaves like the traditional vampire of old, I can prove that he is none such right now by removing the cross."

"_Wait!"_ cried Jack. But the president was already reaching for the cross that hung about their captive's neck. He snatched it up.

"See Jack!" the president said, holding the necklace with the crucifix in Jack's face "whatever it was subdued the creature—"

Jack pointed frantically, and both men spun around.

His bonds fallen away, The Grinning Man had risen to his full height. His face now seemed to have returned to its ghoulish norm, the effects of the salt appeared to have vanished. His eyes now burned redly, oh, very redly. And he grinned showing the full array of his sharp teeth.

_How_, Jack wondered, _How could anyone not believe in the supernatural now after beholding this creature?_

And he could now see that the president, as well, was now backing away in fear.

The grinning man advanced a step towards them. Not only had the ghastly sheen of his white skin returned in full luster, his black cape of midnight silk was flapping about him once again, and his black hat shone as though highly glossed.

"Gentlemen," the monster said.

A weak cry escaped the president's throat.

"I might thank you for freeing me, for I have new worlds to conquer."

Jack was expecting the creature to fling himself upon them, perhaps even tear out the president's throat, and go on to wreck havoc in the real world. But instead, the grinning man whirled away, and dashed down the hall, then rose—actually rose—off the marbled floor, and threw himself into one of the paintings._  
_


	16. Chapter 17

17

Things were very dismal at Brownlow's house.

Not only had Oliver been accused and arrested, but Rose Maylie had not been seen since the previous night.

Harry Maylie had returned home that night, half-expecting his young wife to greet him there. The next morning, the mare she had taken, Pepper, returned to his stable, but without any rider. This, of course, deepened the young man's fears, and he rode out upon the moors, scouring far and wide for her, but found not a trace. He ended up certain that his wife must have met with foul play, most likely by the same fellows who had framed Oliver.

Two facts remained, however, which provided the old man hope in this terrible time. One, young Oliver Twist had also reportedly gone missing. This raised the dreadful prospect that the lad had been murdered by his captors. But since the boy had reportedly vanished in escaping, Brownlow supposed it far more likely that Oliver had indeed managed to somehow escape the constables, and that the boy's good name might still be cleared. Brownlow, Mrs. Bedwin, and the other servants prayed day and night for poor Oliver's welfare.

Mr. Grimwig, Brownlow's friend, had come over one afternoon. He expressed his deepest sympathies for the situation, and in spite of his one-time opinion of Oliver, professed that he deeply believed that the boy could never be guilty of the crime with which he was charged, even though he knew Drummle, and reported, as had many others, that he was a thoroughly despicable man, and that he'd gladly eat his head if he wasn't.

They had gathered in the drawing room and were discussing these very matters, when there came a sharp rap on the front door. Mrs. Bedwin answered the door, to find it was the two constables who had overseen Lord Peter's ball, and who they'd last seen escorting Oliver to the magistrate.

Mrs. Bedwin, naturally, did not have a terribly high regard for them, but since they were constables, and had only been doing their job, she greeted them as pleasantly as she could and bade them enter.

The two officers did, striding into the room importantly.

"I say!" exclaimed Mr. Brownlow. "What are you two doing here? Do you by any chance have any news regarding Oliver?"

"Indeed we do, sir," Snerkins said. "But I fear it isn't much too pleasant.'

"Far from pleasant," agreed Vittles.

"I dread to imagine," said the old gentlemen. "But out with it!"

Snerkins removed an object from beneath his arm and showed them. Brownlow and Grimwig gasped in unison—for the object—or objects—were very familiar.

They were Oliver Twist's felt jacket and silk shirt. Everyone could see that the fine clothing was stained terribly with mud, and appeared to have been thoroughly soaked. The fine linen was now spattered and gray, and the rich burgundy jacket was discolored.

Mrs. Bedwin began to weep.

"We found these in river after much searching. They were waterlogged when they floated to shore. I'm afraid when our young Oliver broke away from us, he must had tired into escape by means of the river, and drowned."

"No!" cried Mrs. Bedwin, openly sobbing. "No, it can't be!"

"I'm afraid it is ma'am. It is our belief that the boy will now never stand trial for his crime—not in any earthly court, at least."

Mr. Brownlow rose menacingly form his chair. "Get out!" he ordered.

"We are only reporting to you the facts, good sir, in our service of the law," said Snerkins. "But since our business here is concluded, we will oblige. "

With that, Snerkins placed the shirt and jacket in the maid's arms and marched out the door, shutting it behind them. Mrs. Bedwin collapsed into a chair, sobbing in grief.

"Mrs. Bedwin, please, " said Brownlow, trying to comfort her. "Don't cry! Oliver is alive! I'm certain of it."

"They brought us proof!" she cried.

"No," said Brownlow, "They did not. I'd wager now more than ever that those fellows are somehow immersed in this whole business."

"You mean framing our Oliver?"

"Yes! There's no means by which I can prove it now! But I can feel a certainty that they are. And I will discover the means to find them out."

"Perhaps they murdered the boy."

Brownlow looked darkly at his friend. He had to admit that that was indeed one possibility. But since Oliver had already been framed, why would whoever have gone to the trouble of framing him want the boy dead?

"You have a point, Grimwig," said Brownlow, "But let none of us give up the hope that our Oliver is very much alive until we receive absolute proof to the contrary."

And on that all of them agreed.

"I'm speaking to Constable Flickart."

"Do you think you think you can trust him? If those two are part of something—"

"I'm guessing," said George,"That he may be onto those two. And Losberne…"

"The doctor? What about him."

"From what he almost said at the party, he may know something."

That evening, at the Three Cripples pub in a seedy spot in London, Vittles and Snerkins were each having a drink. The each deserved a break in their hard and exhaustive duties, they told themselves.

But in truth, they both had grown uneasy with this entire business with Mr. Zebedias Quigsnip.

Vittles, in particular, had become increasingly nervous. Even as they sat in the pub, glancing around at the lower-class customers, half of which were likely thieves and cutthroats, the man reflected on how much he'd come to regret all this. Hearing young Oliver Twist, the celebrated parish orphan boy from the newspapers, screaming out his lungs in terror of being sent away with the cruel chimney sweep had been the worst. It made the man realize to just what depths of monstrousness they had allowed themselves to sink into. For all the shady dealings they'd been involved with secretly before, his very soul revolted at the crime in which they were both now hopelessly immeshed. Quigsnip was evil to a degree they had scarcely conceived up until now. He would undoubtedly have allowed his thugs to have raped the boy's aunt and beat Oliver to death, if he so desired. That he elected to visit an especially cruel fate to the boy chilled Vittles with horror. The truth was, as much as he'd tried to convince himself otherwise, that the fault, if any had to lie with his partner and not himself, he felt like he'd become a Judas Iscariot, betraying innocent blood.

But backing out now would surely mean the gallows for both of them. That was, if they weren't murdered by Quigsnip's cronies first.

Oliver's aunt, at least, had gotten away, and though Quigsnip had sent his cronies in pursuit of her, the girl seemed to have vanished. Vittles for one, was secretly glad.

Snerkins and Vittles had been in the pub for nearly half an hour, but neither of them had spoken much.

"I want out," Vittles said finally.

"What?" asked Snerkins, a brief smile of disbelief momentarily playing upon his face.

Vittles swallowed, looked around. Then facing his companion once he said, "I want no more part of this whole business. It's weighing on my conscious. I can't take it anymore."

"Tell me you're not serious. We can't back out of it! We both know it's far too late for that."

Vittles met him with a steely glare. "Don't you understand what we're into now? I didn't—not until the night we brought him the boy. But I do now. This isn't some juvenile prank on the headmaster like back when we were kids, Bentley. We—"

He looked around at the roguish patrons. None were listening.

He leaned forward at his companion again, and said in a hushed voice, "We could go to the gallows for this."

"'An we _will_ go to the gallows, if either of us dares back out," Snerkins whispered savagely, leaning forward in turn. "Quigsnip has connections. He will allow no one to betray him. You saw what happened to the boy. And I can tell you plenty of tales of men who sought to double cross him who wound up the victim of so-called random stabbing. Backing out is not an option."

"I know." Vittles said quietly. He sat back, looked about, obviously troubled. Then he sipped his ale, not looking at his companion.

"Now look 'ere," said Snerkins, assuming an air of false cheerfulness. "I know how all this looks. I..didn't know it was going to take a course exactly like it has. But…things'll work out. Now that the boy's disappeared, we don't 'ave nuthin' more to worry us. Once Mr. Quigsnip pays us our forty pounds—"

"I don't want his money," said Vittles flatly. "It's poison to me. All I want is out."

"Blimey, don't tell me you've gone soft, after 'earing that poor parish whelp squeal! Whats' that brat to either of us?" Snerkins spoke every word with confidence. But it was now feigned confidence. Vittles could clearly detect an undercurrent of uncertainty in his friend's voice.

"It's not just that. It's everything. Don't you see? You heard what Flickart told us. He's suspected Quigsnip for some time. And I can see it in his eyes when he looks at us. And the questions he asks. He suspects us, I tell you. He does. And if he ever finds Quigsnip out, then you know whose necks will stretch."

"You're paranoid," Snerkins insisted, "Quigsnip is the kingpin of crime. He knows better than anyone how keep his tracks covered. And your imagining thins about Flickart. He doesn't suspect us. He couldn't!"

"It's not just that either," said Vittles. "It's…well it's just that I can't be part of this anymore. I can't."

"Then you _have_ gone soft."

Vittles rose stoically from his seat.

Snerkins rose also, reading the determination in the other constable's eyes. "My god, James, don't walk out on me! Don't make me have to—"

"Peach on me? Do what you must, Bentley, old friend. I don't know what course of action I'm going to take now. But I'm not in this business anymore. We're through. Tell Mr. Quigsnip he can choke on his forty pounds."

"James—"

But Vittles was already on his way to the door. Snerkins could only stare after him, as his boyhood companion strode out of the Three Cripples and away into the street.


	17. Chapter 18

18

Jack Burton, not waiting for the president's orders, took off after the Grinning Man, but he was not quite swift enough before his quarry vanished into the swirling, liquid surface of the painting.

Jack plunged in after him—he had the faint impression of the darkness of the painting, and the macabre aspect of it—before plunging in.

He was stuck in the face by the full blaze of sunlight in a nearly cloudless blue sky.

There was a brisk, seasonally autumnal breeze on his face.

Burton looked about, surveyed his surroundings.

He was in the midst of some sort of vast metropolis. Where, he couldn't be sure, not at first, only that wherever he was didn't seem to match the morbid character of the painting. He'd had the fleeting impression of a gothic looking mansion against a dark background, among other things, before plunging through the painting's surface. This sunny-looking city was one of the last places he would have expected.

There were some shrill bird cries, causing him to glance skyward. Some white birds—gulls, apparently—wheeled and dipped, indicating a large body of water not far off.

The architecture itself looked European, though it took him a while to place it. It wasn't French, though there was, he thought, definitely a French influence there. It seemed closed to the Italian. He was in Southwestern Europe, he guessed, possibly Venice, Italy. Yes, there did seem something Venetian about this city. Plus the gulls, suggesting the Mediterranean Sea was not far off.

Also, the Grinning Man was nowhere in sight.

Burton realized that perhaps his quarry had traveled sideways; that is slipped into another universe than this immediately before he arrived.

But somehow, he doubted it.

Not knowing where to locate the Grinning Man, Burton began walking. The more he saw of the architecture, though, the stranger it seemed. Venetian, perhaps, with some French mixed in, but it didn't really resemble precisely any manner of design form the world he knew. For one thing, the building s seemed to be bizarrely jammed together ; the cobblestone streets zigzagging in bizarre fashion, and in the distance, he could view a plethora of slender towers and turrets which also seemed to arranged at far too close a proximity to one another.

The city was elegant and beautiful in design; yet it also seemed laid out in a design suggestive of madness. There was something just not entirely sane about it.

And then Jack noticed, for the first time, what he should have recognized straight off.

There were no people.

Such a city as this out to be swarming with throngs of inhabitants, not to mention tourists. Throngs of vendors should have lined the streets, selling goods under vibrant awnings. Yet there were none—not a single inhabitant had Burton encountered upon entering the strange metropolis.

So very different from the bustling crowds and cloying stench of Dickensverse London.

But as Burton kept walking, a certain type of stench did reach his nostrils. The unmistakable odor of death. It kept growing stronger as he continued in the direction he was headed.

It was the stink of rotting flesh. A macabre pall seemed to descend over this sunny, beautiful, though bizarre metropolis. It was not long before he happened upon his first dead body.

It was that of a man, possibly a baker, judging by his white apron. Jack didn't want to venture too close to the corpse, but he noticed that the flesh was pale, grayish, and covered over with miniscule red sores that appeared to run a putrescent pus, which undoubtedly was contributing to the stench. A nearby store—or what had once been a store—was boarded up. Again, possibly it was abakery, where theis man worked.

Jack soon encountered other corpses, laying in the street, of men, women, and children. All were covered in the scarlet blemishes. He noticed that some of the the sea gulls were pecking at the corpses.

_Sick,_ he thought. Gulls were beautiful birds, and he already hated how sometimes they spoiled themselves by feeding on garbage and litter in big cities located near an ocean or lake. Only this was worse. He could more easily imagine crows or vultures doing this sort of thing; seagulls, one would think would be above it. But animals were ever the opportunists when it came to an easy meal, and he couldn't blame them.

Then he noticed that the gulls overhand were all converging on something that lay ahead of him.

Full of morbid curiosity, he followed them.

He noticed that there were other birds mixing with them though, and that these seemed more appropriate to this sort of grim work. They were large black birds, either crows or ravens.

As he kept going, he noticed the swarms of birds growing larger as they converged on the one spot.

And then, at the edge of where the street emptied into a large courtyard, he saw it, though he ventured no further due to the stench, which by this time, had attained overpowering proportioned.

A vast, sprawling help of dead bodies, all peppered with the red sores, toweed in the center of the courtyard. And the birds—mostly ravens he now saw—were descending upon the grand feast.

Nausea gagging him, Jack Burton turned away.

He began walking away from the courtyard in the direction he had come, and turned down one of the sagging side-streets.

Abruptly, a short distance in front of him, a short hand appeared out of a doorway.

It was child-sized, and child-height above the ground, and covered to the wrist in a yellow sleeve, of clothing that looked like silk.

"You! Stranger!" cried out a shrill voice. "This way!" The voice was in Italian, but with an unfamiliar accept.

The voice obviously belonged to the owner of the yellow-sleeved arm. But, though the voice was shrill, he could tell it belonged to an adult person, not a child.

Intrigued, Burton followed the voice's direction as the arm in yellow silk motioned twice, then vanished, though he kept his laser pistol, out and at the ready. He paused at an open doorway in the wall, though the owner of the arm had seemed to have vanished.

Then the voice came again: "This way stranger, up here!"

Jack gingerly peered up into the gloom of the archway. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw the person who had spoken, standing a distance up form where he stood on a flight of stone steps. He was obviously a small person, of childlike proportions, but he was no child; he was a dwarf or a midget of some sort. He was wearing colorful clothing, a vest of yellow and red and blue diamonds, with ywllow pantlegs and small man motioned again, then sprang spryly up the steps, vanishing from Jack's. view. His laser at the ready, Jack ducked into the archway and followed his mysterious guide up the steps. He heard the faint jingle of bells and saw that his guide appeared to be wearing some sort of harlequin's cap.

At last, Burton emerged at the top of the stairs. He found himself in a surprisingly large spare room, with furniture, including chairs, tables and bookcases. A small stove stood to one side, and a hallway eld off on the left to other rooms. His guide stood before him. Jack could see now, that he was of nearly normal proportions, again, nearly childlike. People in a former time than his own, Jack knew had been subject to peculiar deformities like this; there were those who were affected by achondroplasia , also known as dwarfism. Such people were usually characterized by large heads in proportion to body size. Then there were "midgets," those whose who maintained childlike proportions into their adult years. The tiny man before him was most likely one of these, though his face, however small, seemed definitely that of an adult. His outfit ws indeed of silk, and very vibrantly checkered in crimson, green, blue and yellow. His jester's cap was of a matching color-scheme, and hung with small silver bells.

Then Jack noticed there was someone else sharing the room. She was a tiny female, also a midget, with delicate features and a frail built. She was dressed all on gossamer and brightly white silk.

"Who are you?" Jack asked.

"I had a given name long ago," the little man told him, "But I gave it up during years spent in the keep of a cruel monarch. So I call myself by the name he gave me. I am known as Hop-Frog. And this is my wife, Tripetta."

"Hop-Frog!"

"Yes, that is what I am called."

"I-I've heard of you."

"You have?"

"Most Certainly," Jack said. But he didn't think he'd better tell where or how he'd heard of him. "I-I've heard that you're..er..rather infamous."

"_What?'"_ said the dwarf. Hop-Frog's eyes narrowed as though in suspicion, and he displayed his ugly, corroded teeth. He took a step toward jack, who was now a bit unnerved. "Where did you hear _that_?"

Jack realized he msut have made a mistake. But then Trippetta said, "No! No, Hop-Frog dear! Can you not see that this man means us no harm?"

Hop-Frog seemed to lose some of his suspicion. He looked at Jack curiously. Then he said. "Hmm..I do believe you are right, Trippetta. But how you may have come to know of me, good sir, is likely none of my business. And what could you do, after all? Who could you inform regarding my past, eh?"

Jack said nothing.

"Come over here," Hop-Frog told him, "And allow us to refresh you with some good wine."

Burton was unsure entirely if he should trust the dwarf. But he and Trepitta were the only persons he'd seen alive in this city so far.

Jack seated himself at the wooden table. Hop-Frog stood on a stool, and got out a bottle of wine, obviously of some rare Italian vintage. Treppitta got out a decanter and some glasses. These they set on the table. It was not long before Jack was sharing wine with his diminutive host and hostess.

He decided not to mince words, even though it is entirely possible that Hop-Frog and his wife would think him mad. He told them all about himself, that he came from another world, that he was seeking a stranger called the Grinning Man. He also told them how this Grinning Man had already wrecked havoc in numerous universes, including the world he had just recently vacated. He left out the part about how both of these words had been created by authors who lived in his own. That was just too much of a stretch.

Hop Frog and Treppitta knew nothing of the Grinning Man's whereabouts. "We've never seen any creature like him,"

"You're sure?"

"Very, my good man," sand Jack's host, "but your tale of another world is intriguing enough that you nearly make me believe it."

"Oh, Hop-Frog," said Trippetta, "It is true! Look, just look at his strange clothes. And his accent. He is either a foreigner form a faraway land, or he tells the truth."

"Maybe," Hop-Frog said.

Jack saw that the light outside the partially boarded-up windows was fading. "Tell me," he asked, "since you recognize, at least, that I'm a foreigner, what city is this? And what happened here? I saw on my way here that some dreadful plague must have killed everyone in the city, except you."

"Oh, Trippetta and I are not the only survivors. There are others, many others, still alive in the city, though few in number they are compared to the victims of the Red Death."

"The…the Red Death."

Hop-Frog nodded grimly. "The plague has come to be known only by that name. This city is called Groniko, capital of Venicia, by the way, a tiny nation nestled between the borders of Italy and France."

"No such nation exists in my world," Jack told him.

"Then, my friend, count yourself lucky, for it is here, in Venicia that the plague known as the Red Death began. It was once very prosperous—until the Red Death came. When Treppitta and I first came to this city, it was indeed very rich for such a tiny country. Groniko was ruled by a decadent prince, one Prospero, and his court of equally decadent nobles. They sealed themselves off in Prospero's palace, leaving the rest of us to the plague. It is a massive fortress, that palace, almost a city unto itself. Prospero offered scores of pleasures to be had within those walls. But…the Red Death came for them anyway. It was only months after the prince and his loyal courtiers had sealed themselves off from the world did anyone become suspicious that tragedy might have stolen upon the palace's inhabitants. But was emmissay form aneighboring city who first actually gained access to the palace with his special key—and found the Prince and his subjects lying dead, every one of them, in the corridors of the great ballroom."

"Word travels far, it seems," Jack said. "For I've heard mention of this Prospero. He had a certain flare for the bizarre, didn't he?"

"Yes, so I've heard. The ballroom where the Prince met his final fate was divided into separate garish chambers, each furnished in a different hue. No one knows quite how the plague took them, as they took every precaution against it, so it seemed. But take them it did, and I must say I'm rather glad of it. I have no love lost on royalty or nobility, you see."

"But do you mean to say that this country is without rulers?"

"It is. In fact, you might say that Venicia is a country in name only now. It is in chaos, and has no government. Some few of us, such as Trippetta and I, are immune to the Red Death. We were wanted fugitives from the nation of Balbornia, leagues to the north, another miniscule nation between France and Deutchland."

"That nation," Jack told him, "is found on no map in my world either."

"Be that as it may," Hop-frog continued, "you may have heard of us, as it was in Balbornia that we gained the notoriety you spoke of. We were on the run for our lives from the King's loyalists. Fortuneately for us, our small size and dexterity served us very well. We were able to take refuge in the forests that lay between that city and the border. Once we were safely across, we headed here, to Venicia, in search of a temporary refuge…"

"You're not from here, originally."

"No our country lies far eastward of here. But Trippetta knew people among the common folk of Groniko, and for a while, we got along well here. Until the Red death that is."

"What caused this plague."

"AH! It was a mystery for a while. But people now strongly suspect that the Red Death is no natural plague, but originated in the laboratories of the mad alchemist, Fernanado Ruiz."

"_Who?"_

"He is a minor nobleman of very eccentric tastes. Somewhat like Prospero, you might say, and I believe that they are distant cousins. But Fernando shut himself off form the company of other humans. Only very rarely did he venture forth from the Keep of his castle. We began to notice that the first of the Red Death's victims lived in very near proximity ot his palace. And then the plague fanned out, until it overran the whole nation. Even as we speak, the Red Death has spread its pestilence over the border into Italy, France and Switzerlund."

"Then," said Burton, "it must be stopped. I want you to take me to the castle of alchemist right now."

Hop-Frog and Treppitta looked at Jack in disbelief, as though he truly had become mad.

"I need to stop the plague,' he said, "In the world in which I hail from, there are now cures for nearly everything, even viruses."

"I do not know what a virus is," said Hop-Frog," but I must warn you that this is likely not a natural plague. Fernando Ruiz created it somehow, perhaps by means of the dark arts."

"Nonetheless, you must take me there. Now. Tonight."

"Tonight!" exclaimed Trepitta. "Why ever must you go this very night?"

"My enemy, the Grinning Man….I know that he might…make use of this plague. I must find this Fernando before he does."

"Very well," said Hop-Frog, "I and my wife are immune to the Red Death. I cannot guarantee that you will be."

They made their preparations. Tripetta was to remain behind while, Hop-Frog escorted jack to the castle of the mad alchemist.

"But…will she be safe here alone."

"I will be, thank you sir," Tripetta said.

"She will," Hop-Frog agreed, grinning up slyly at Jack. Here, the dwarf displayed his unwholesome teeth once again. "You see, I always leave my Tripetta well guarded."

"What do you mean?"

"Allow me to show you," Hop-Frog said.

He led Jack down the short hall, past a few smaller rooms. At the end of the hall was a heavy wood door. It was unbolted. Hop-Frog drew the door slowly open.

A heavy animal odor hit Jack square in the face. Peering into the room, Jack at first saw only darkness.

Then, as his vision began to adjust….

Two terrible orbs appeared in the gloom. Jack as aware almost at once that the orbs had to be the eyes of whatever it was that dwelled here. But they appeared without pupils, a pale, ghoulish milky-white. He saw the vague stirring of some massive shape within the darkness. Then the thing began to shamble forward.

Jack took two teps backward, his instincts screaming for him to flee. But he stood his ground, trusting the jester. Hop-Frog backed up as well, affording the creature the space it required as it emerged into the feeble light.

Jack gasped sharply, as he took in the beast's massive outline, its savage appearance.

A huge, primordial-looking ape it was, walking upon its knuckles, covered in long, shaggy reddish fur. It has a low, brutish face, heavy cheek-pads, and pupil-less yees that indicated that the creature was blind.

The ape bounded massively toward jack, who reacted with swiftness, drawing forth his laser.

"No, no!" exclaimed Hop-Frog. "Jack is a friend!"

The beast stopped, obeyed, appeared to understand what the dwarf had said.

The beast was obviously an orang-outang, one of those huge, ferocious apes of far off Indonesia. Huge and ferocious? This ape, it seemed was both larger and more fierce in appearance than the apes fo Burton knew from his own world, particularly the orangs which were ordinarily peaceful.

The creature glowered at him with those, disturbingly souless eyes.

""Is..is the beast blind?" he asked Hop-Frog.

"He is. His captors blinded him. Made him easier to control. Very cruel to him they were. I found him in circus that was passing through Groniko, and I liberated him. Do not fear him—he's very loyal to myself and Ttripetta. But I assure you, he'll rend any man or beast who sets foot in here uninvited.'

Jack was reminded at once of the orang of "Murders In the Rue Morgue', who had also been ill-treated, and became murderously ferocious. But this couldn't be the same animal; he didn't exactly how the timeline in this universe progressed, but he had to be centuries before that story took place. Then again, Poe seemed to have a certain bit of an obsession with orang-outangs, so the presence of one here shouldn't have surprised him.

Darkness was fast settling over the towers and streets of Groniko when Hop-Frog led jack through the streets toward Castle Fernando. Jack was fascinated by the fact that the skies above the city had now turned a lurid crimson—a crimson of death. And the red of the sky was reflecting in the sightlessly gaping pupils of the cadavers that strew the streets. Hordes of ravens, vast dense flocks, now swarmed overhead. The entire city was eerily silent, save now for the vast rustling of sable feathers, and the sound of gristly feasting as ebon beaks punctured eyeballs, and ripped away flesh in a ghastly orgy.

At last they stood before the castle of the alchemist. It was a towering, imposing structure which seemed to be composed primarily of a multiplicity of spires, thrusting spear-like against the darkening heavens. The sky was now so deep a crimson it was nearly black.

"How do we get in?" Jack asked the midget.

"We merely walk in," Hop-Frog told him. "This place has long been abandoned by Fernando's guards and servants."

They pushed wide the black, wrought-iron gate, and made their across a wide courtyard, passing what must have been private gardens, now overgrown, to the front door of the castle.

They found the door unlocked as well, and entered without difficulty. Within, all was gloom and shadows, so Hop-Frog lit a torch, and led his companion on through rooms that were furnished in incredible lavish richness, but which now were overlayed with dust, and in the process of decay. It was an eerie place, filled with dark shadowy apparitions; most were merely the shapes of bizarre furniture and sculptures of fantastic design—or so Jack thought. Still, he could have sworn that he saw one of them display a hint of movement, and another time a dark shape seemed to flicker in the corner of his eye. But when he turned to looked directly were it was, there was nothing.

"Come on," said the dwarf, the bells of his jester-cap tinkling, "this way."

Jack followed the dwarf, thinking that Hop-frog seemed to know his way around this place awfully well. The midget's torch threw up lurid wavering shadows in its orange luminance, over the walls and ceiling. Jack kept glancing over his shoulder, half expecting one of the looming shapes to detach itself from the surrounding shadows and begin to follow them. Once, he thought he heard something far back the way they'd come, but he wasn't certain. At length they reached the base of a broad set of stone steps.

"These should lead us to the central tower," Hop-frog told him.

"Are you sure he's really up there?"  
"Alchemists generally locate their laboratories high above," answered the dwarf.

They began ascending the stairs. At the top, they discovered a hallway that led to various other chambers. Torches lined both walls. These were lit, and guttering in their sconces, indicating someone did dwell here after all. They crept forward until at last they discerned feeble glow emanating from one of them.

"Ah-ha!" exclaimed the midget. He and jack quickened their pace.

At the threshold of the room, both of them gasped.

Inside was indeed an alchemist's laboratory, lit by a forest of candles on a round table in the center of the room. The room was almost chocked with glass flasks, beakers, bottles, and tubes, many of these filled with vibrantly colored liquids.

Cautiously, they entered the alchemist's chamber. Then they saw, on the opposite side, in front of a desk strewn with parchements, a man lounging, as though asleep or dead, in a silken comfort-chair. He looked youngish, with jet-black hair and pale, paste-white skin. He wore a robe of fine black satin, trimmed in scarlet silk.

"Is-is that-?" Jaack started.

"I believe that it is," answered the jester. Hop-Frog stood silent for a moment. Then the diminutive harlequin darted forward, and tugged on the man's sable sleeved arm.

"Oh!" exclaimed Lord Fernando, reviving at once. The man stood up and stared at them both.

"Who…what are you doing here?"  
Jack was uncertain how they should handle this. "I—I am Jack Burton. This is my friend Hop-Frog. We—"

"I know why you've come!" Fernando shouted. "You blame me for the Red Death! And you want to hang me from my own battlements, on the morrow." The nobleman seized up a rapier that had been laying at his side "Well, come then! Take me if you can!"

"No!" exclaimed the jester. "We mean no harm to you! There's no one left to hang you. There are only a few poor citizens left within the city walls, such as myself, and they fear to venture forth. Prince Prospero and all his knights and courtiers are dead. Groniko is now a city of the dead, Fernanado."

The man gazed at the dwarf hollowly. "Prospero…that proud arrogant fool…dead?"

"He is dead," the jester told him. "But you are indeed the cause of the Red Death. I am convinced myself of this upon coming here. This man says you may be able to stop it—to find a cure. No other man but you could do this! So perhaps you can find a way to stop it."

"I cannot! Do you think I have not tried?"

"The Red Death ravages beyond Venicia's borders, your lordship! If you cannot stop it—"

"Show me how you made the plague!" shouted Jack. "I know its' hard to believe, but I hail form a time in your future. I might be able to have the doctors of my world find a cure. If you could give me a sample, in a sealed tube, perhaps—"

"You don't understand!" cried the alchemists. "I did not create the plague through normal means. I used chemicals yes. But the essence of the Red Death was summoned here from another plane. Still, perhaps I could replicate the process—"

"_But you won't!"_

The voice boomed out of the shadows.

Fernando Ruiz shrieked. Hop-Frog and Jack Burton whirled at sound of the voice. It was a voice that Burton was now horribly familiar.

Framed in the doorway of the alchemy chamber stood the ghastly, freakishly tall form of the Grinning Man. His skin was so ghostly-white it appeared nearly bright against the shadows. His eyes balzed red within the gloom. He wore the same black cloak and quasi-Dickensian hat, and the same ghastly grin.

"Death!" shrieked Fernanado. "It is death, come to claim me!"

"No," purred the apparition, "I am not death. But I have come to claim something from you."

The apparitions flew at Fernando. The Grinning man seized up a tiny vial form the table. Turning his hideous visage upon Jack, he said, "Here is what you needed—a sample of the plague to take to the scientists of your world. But it is too late now, for you. Oh, what I might do to the inhabitants of the Dickensverse now. Perhaps I'll give it to our good friend Mr. Zebedias Quigsnip, and see if he can use it to gain power. Or maybe I'll just set it loose on world without modern medicine. I'm afraid the Poeverse will need to take care of itself."

A portal in the ether began to open, a slice through the fabric of this world's reality, spilling eye-searing blue white radiance into the chamber. Fernanado screamed once more.

With a horrid, ice-cold laugh, the Grinning Man plunged through the portal.

Jack already had the tunneler device, and had pressed the button.

In the next instant, he had plunged in pursuit of his quarry.


	18. Chapter 19

19

"I refuse to believe Oliver had anything to do with it!" insisted Mr. Brownlow.

He and Dr. Losberne stood in the office of Inspector Flickart in Scotland Yard. They had come to inquire what news there was in resolving the case of the attempt on Drummle's life, and to impart what might prove to be vital information. Another constable, who had known Oliver in the past, Duff by name, stood in the room.

"I know, I know," Flickart said, "But what I'm telling you is that so far we've uncovered nothing that would prove otherwise. I'm afraid the real perpetrators-assuming there are such-have covered their tracks very well, leaving Oliver the sole suspect in this case."

"If Drummle is the sort of fellow we all have heard him to be," opined Brownlow, "Then, I'm certain that there are others who would have far more motive than our Oliver to act against him."

"That may be," Flickart told him, "but until concrete evidence pointing in that direction makes itself known—"

"Then an innocent young boy who never once committed a falsehood in his meager years must be the culprit!"

"Keep your temper, George!" cautioned Losberne. "Remember that he is a representative of the law. And, constable, we've come to relate some information you may not be aware, but which may point not merely to Oliver's innocence, but to the guilt of the fellow whom George tell me you are bent upon bringing to justice."

Flickart raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And what fellow might that be, might I inquire, given London is swarming with dastardly characters."

"Perhaps, the worst, if what you believe is true. When you accompanied Rose and Oliver to Lord Peter's estate, you showed the boy a sketch of the man suspected to be London crime lord."

"That is right. _The_ London crime lord. Mr. Zebedias Quigsnip. But he covers his tracks very well indeed…hmmm, you have a point. If anyone is crafty enough to have framed a young boy without leaving so much as trace, he is the one. You actually know something of him?"

"I'm afraid that I may. And that Oliver does too."

Flickart, a wild look in his eye, leapt to his feet. "Aha! The boy_ did _know something! I knew it! I knew it!"

Losberne looked troubled, not sharing the inspector's enthusiasm.

"Well, man?" inquired the constable. "What do you and Oliver know about Quigsnip? I was a bit violent with the lad at Lord Peter's I'm afraid. But why did he not tell me? Why did he cover up for this man? I suppose the lad's generous nature wouldn't allow him to inform on any of rabble who took him in."

"It's not like that, I can assure you," said Losberne. "Though I'm confident Oliver would never wish to peach on anyone, he'd not willfully deceive anyone either, especially an officer of the law. If anything, he'd be honest and say that he wasn't going to tell you."

"Perhaps," said Flickart, "Go on."

"There was incident following the one in which the thieves forced the boy into the pantry window at Maylies'. It happened after the boy had been wounded in the arm, and had nearly recovered the full measure of his health. I was taking him on an excursion in my carriage, to locate George's house, when Oliver recognized a house the thieves took him to before the burglary. I rushed to the door, fool that I am, demanding that the villain Sikes show his face. But, to my dismay, a strange little humpback man of repulsive appearance, whom Oliver had never before seen, answered the door, and nothing in the house answered the boy's description of the place! I demanded the man tell me Sike's whereabouts, but he only insisted that he'd lived there, mad and all alone, all his years, seemed unaware of Sikes and his cronies! I gave the man a coin for his troubles then, but the man followed me to my carriage, cursing me for my intrusion. He…also gave me an ominous warning, "You will pay for this." And he peered into the carriage window at Oliver with so fearsome and vindictive a look that it terrified the boy utterly! But I simply dismissed the whole incident is inconsequential. I nearly almost mentioned it at the party at Lord Peter's after Drummle was poisoned. But again, I dismissed it, thinking it could not have been of any dire concern, and no connection with the Drummle incident surely. Oliver had to have been mistaken."

"But he was not, sir!" raved Flickart. The man had listened with wonder-struck attention as Losberne related his tale, and now his demeanor had undergone a complete transformation. A wild look had come into the constable's eye. His blood was up, and Brownlow and Losberne found themselves now a bit intimidated by the man. "You said the incident left Oliver terribly shaken, and that my friend is indeed why he did not identify man in the sketch! But he _did_ know him, sir, and that is what blacked out the boy's consciousness! Tell me, this house which the boy pointed out, was it by the river, near Chertsey bridge?"

"Yes, that is indeed the house."

"That house, my good physician, I happen to know, is indeed the legal property of Mr. Zebedias Quigsnip, the selfsame fiend whom I now am within a farthing of catching! Normally, he rents it out, not to thieves, at least that I know of, but to good, decent folk. The man has reputation you see, which he uses as a front for what I am certain are perfectly nefarious dealings. I haven't actually any word before that he ever dwells there himself, in spite of what he told you, so I suppose he was in the area for the explicit purpose of locating and identifying Oliver!"

"By Jove, you're right!" exclaimed Losberne. "It didn't occur to me, but that must be the reason that Fagin and Monks knew that Oliver was alive, and that the Maylies had taken him in. They appeared at the library table not long afterward, when the boy was half asleep in the study."

"And you know what that means, don't you, fellow?" said Flickart, grinning like a panther about to pounce on his long-sought-after quarry.

"It means this Quigsnip had to have been involved with the Fagin gang."

"_Involved_ with them?" grinned Flickart predatorily, "'involved' is hardly the correct word! He was _controlling_ the Fagin gang! The fiend Quigsnip crouches, gloating, at the precise center of a great web of criminal network, like the loathsome spider that he is, and he controls every single silken strand of his creation! But thanks to our young, tow-headed foundling Oliver Twist, a portion of that web, I would guess a very sizable portion, has broken. You wonder at the man's vindictive stare at the boy! Wonder no more! This plot is Quigsnip's scheme of revenge. He looks, so far, to succeed. But I'll not let him!"

"That's what we've been wanting to hear!" said Losberne.

"And I'll vouch for young Twist's innocence," put in Duff. "I and my partner Blathers were uncertain about the lad's intentions for a while, but after what we came to know about Oliver, we'd both wager against the boy committing any such mischief as he's been accused."

"Then prepare to inspect Lord Peter's house once again, Duff. And I'm going to investigate Mr. Quigsnip's house personally. I also happen to know two constables who are in for some serious questioning."

"Those two fellows claimed to have found Oliver's clothes—" started Brownlow.

"In the same river that flows through Chertsey!" finished Flickart. "Blast! I should have guessed then! The place the boy supposedly escaped and plunged into the river, according to those liars, is long way from that house, but I should have known all along! We must search the entire area for clues, Duff, we must!"

"A pity you did not show us this manner of enthusiasm before you knew this fiend who you're obsessed with capturing was involved," said Brownlow. "And what about young Rose? She rode off in pursuit of the two fellows you just mentioned. Could she have not have met with foul play associated with this man as well? I dare say that it would serve you to double the search for Rose, especially in light of the fact that you intend to capture this wicked man!"

"And so I will," Flickart promised. "Though we have found no trace of her, that fact too points in the direction of our friend, Mr. Zebedias Quigsnip!"

Just another constable, a young man, burst in the door. "Mr. Flickart," he said, "Pardon this intrusion, but I have word of Rose Maylie!"

Constable Flickart looked up consternately, "I should hope so, by now!"

The countenances of Brownlow and Losberne brightened considerably.

"She has arrived at Brownlow's house this morning," the young man said, looking at the two men with a smile of reassurance. "A Mr. Copperfield is with her, and a man called Jack Burton."

"Wait, wait," interposed Flickart. "_The_ Mr. Copperfield?"

"Yes," the young constable said, "Yes, it is he as a matter of fact. And he and Mr. Burton have some information, I believe, which….may prove pertinent to this case."

"Well," said Flickart, "We must all of us hasten to Brownlow's. I would speak with this Burton, myself."

They all went to Brownlow's, where they found the company of Copperfield, Burton, and Rose waiting for them. Copperfield's children, and some of his family were there as well, as were Mrs. Taggle and little Millie.

Harry Maylie was there as well. He and Rose tearfully embraced. She sobbed and sobbed in his arms.

"Oh, Rose," he said, "I was so worried. Whatever happened to you? Why did you leave Lord Peter's?"

"I-I went to search for Oliver," she told.

"And...and you didn't find him, I gather."

"I'll tell you," she said, settling down in a chair. "I…I fear some very terrible people have him!" She began weeping again.

"Oh, oh Rose," said Harry, trying his best to comfort her. "We'll find him, we'll get him back."

"Tell me what you know, young lady," Flickart said. The constable was standing there importantly. He raised an eyebrow. "So, you say that young Oliver is indeed still alive? We received official word that he'd drowned trying to escape in the Chertsey river."

"Oh, no!" she cried. "My Oliver is very much still alive." But he horrid suggestion that the villains who had kidnapped the boy might possibly have drowned him flitted across her mind. She also saw that, form the look on Flickart's face, that the same thought had occurred to the constable.

"I would say," Flickart said, following a moment of silence, "that the alleged incident of the boy's having drowned is a fraud, and the boy is alive somewhere. But what the villain's motivation is, I do not quite yet fathom."

"Villain? What villain?"

"Mr. Quigsnip," Flickart told her, "the same blackguard I informed you and Lord Peter about. Oliver did know him. Only the lad was too frightened to speak of it at the time!"

"Yes..yes, I already figured that part out."

Flickart raised another eyebrow at her. "Perhaps you'd best tell me why you ran off, girl, and what happened."

"Oh, I will."

Rose told him everything that had occurred. He then interviewed Copperfield, and then Burton. He then talked to Mrs. Taggle and her daughter, to see if their side of the story added up. It was Burton's tale that he had the most difficulty in accepting, and he could tell by the look on the young man's face, that he knew it too, and likely feared being committed to a madhouse.

Who was Burton? His accent and clothes seemed very strange.

Flickart sat in his chair, deep in thought for a while, attempting to fathom it all out.

At last he said, "Okay. There is much to this case, quite a bit of it not making rational sense. But I am going to fit them together as near as I am able, and during the investigation, the real truth of all this, I ebleive, will assert itself. Mr. Burton, I do not believe you are form the future, or from another "universe," as you put it. But I can accept you are a foreigner of some sort and you have come in search of a refugee, perhaps a criminal form your country. And this Grinning Man, as you call him, may indeed be an escaped murderer or psychopath, and I will make certain that all the windows and doors or this house are secure tonight. As for this mystery man's involvement in this case, that shall be made evident once I sort out Mr. Quigsnip's connections. Duff, Blathers," he said to the two other men, "first, we're going to make a torhough search of Mr. Quignsips' property's; first the house by Chertsey bridge, and then the place where he does his dealings."

"The antique store, you mean?"

"Yes, that very place."


	19. Chapter 20

20

Gamfield walked in front. Oliver stumbled along in the man's wake.

They were now in the city of London on the east end.

The chimney sweep had bound the boy's wrists together, and led him by a cord of rope that served as a leash.

The youngster struggled to keep up, gasping and weeping, as Gamfield forced him unmercifully. The boy held his head down, his blond locks hanging and soaked, dripping with rainwater.

It had rained last night, and most of the following day. It was now night again, and they had entered London.

The narrow, twisting alleyways, and the smell of refuse were what Oliver had become accustomed to back before he'd been rescued. He did not recognize this section of town, though.

The adult seemed nearly tireless; he'd forced Oliver to walk the entire time, save for once when Gamfield had stopped for a drink in Chertsey, and one other time when he'd decided they need to rest outside London. The rest of the time, Oliver had been forced to walk on raw feet that were slowly blistering. The boy wore no shoes, unlike the other time when he and Sikes had walked to Chertsey from London in the other direction. He was now clad only in rags.

There were puddles in the streets form the fresh rain; garbage flung from open windows had mixed in it from the rain, creating a rancid sludge. Oliver managed to avoid the most polluted-looking puddles, but had fallen over twice, once splashing into a smaller puddle of water.

Both times, Gamfield had cursed him, and jerked the rope savagely, forcing his captive to stumble to his feet and unwillingly continue their wretched journey. Oliver had wept bitterly when they started out, but he soon learned that if his sobbing grew too loud, it earned him a brutal cuff from Gamfield. Oliver tried to make no sound, but still tears streamed from his eyes.

This had all happened so swiftly! It hardly seemed as though it could be real. Four days ago, he'd been enjoying a comfortable life with his friends and family. Now here he was amongst the filth and squalor he supposed he'd forever escaped.

Never before had despair descended over him so utterly.

As though in an instant, his joyous new life had been washed away, leaving him trapped an abyss of misery with no way out.

"C'mon, ya lazy work-us brat! Move!" Gamfield snarled at him, yanking the rope.

Oliver gave a gasping, strangled cry, and stumbled forward, forcing his frail legs to walk faster, though this was becoming agonizingly difficult, with the soles of his feet now oozing blood, and having grown considerably weak by now. But somehow, Oliver managed it, and even in the depths of this new wave of hopelessness, the boy forced himself to grasp onto hope.

He'd been through times like this before, God knew, and his fortunes had changed. Oliver began to realize that he couldn't allow his anguish, terrible though it was, to overwhelm him, not this time, not any time. If he did, then Gamfield and Quigsnip would win. He'd been saved before.

He would _have_ to be saved again.

They had reached a dilapidated, two-story house on a street corner.

"'Ere we are, Oliver, my boy," Gamfield announced. "Yer new home from now on."

The boy looked up, blinking through his tears. It was a ramshackle house, likely crumbling from and infested with rats. But suddenly a new determination bloomed within the boy's heart. Oliver had no idea how he would escape from his captor, especially after being framed. But he would have to see this through.

"Hehheh," the chimney sweep chortled. "Not exactly the sort of lodging you've gotten used to the past two years eh? I'll wager ya think my house isn't quite good enough fer ya?"

Oliver said nothing.

"Well, ya best gits used to it, Oliver. Remember, you're no better than me is, _now_, boy! In fact, yer naught but the lowest of the low from now on, lower than the soot on my boots. That's the lot for a chimney sweep lad! Lord Oliver Fleming indeed! Lord of the chimneys, ya are now! Heheheh!" he shoved the boy roughly toward the house.

He then ascended the wood steps, and pulled the stumbling Oliver up after him.

Gamfield pounded heavily on the door. Oliver stood there mutely beside his brutal captor, terribly weak on his sore feet, awaiting the next incident in this grim drama to reveal itself.

As it did when the door creaked open, and a middle-aged, shrew-faced woman peered out. She had a loog, snipish beak of a nose, sunken cheeks, and tiny beady eyes, with which she peered at Gamfield, then at his young charge.

"Oh, yer back sooner than I 'spected," she said. "And the boy!" she remarked, eyeing Oliver. "You got 'im. Got a new 'prentice!"

"I said I would, didn't I? That new associate of mine, Mr. Quigsnip, ee makes good his promises, he does! Oliver, meet the missus. She's very glad to meet you, boy. Consider yerself privileged, young Oliver Twist. Yer the answer to our debt problem, you are!"

"Well, come in, come in!"

She creaked the door open, its hinges squealing. Gamfield and his young captive entered. Oliver looked about. The place didn't look horrible, and was well furnished at least, but he knew the Gamfield's were unlikely to make his lot here a comfortable one.

Mrs. Gamfield shut the door and again scrutinized young Oliver once again, her beady eyes glittering.

"Ee looks like a bold one to me!" she sniped to her husband. "Ee's bound to give us trouble, this one!"

"No ee won't! 'Ee knows what'll 'appen to 'im if he makes trouble, don't ya, Oliver?"

"Yes, sir," Oliver said.

"That's right, boy! My club'll take any gumption you have right out of you, right enough!"

"I still don't trust a work'us brat!" said his wife. "They're all natural thieves—or worse! Just look at those shifty eyes! Oh!- the wicked treachery on that face!" She indicated Oliver's pained, sad expression. "I'd keep this boy locked up, so I would! It's the only right and proper way to treat wicked boys like this!"

"Well, 'course we're goin' to keep 'im locked up, missus. Just like all them other boys—rest in peace."

"Well, make sure you do, and that 'ee doesn't get out! I'm not having any lice-haired foundling stealing our bread and cheese while we're asleep!"

Oliver had eaten well at his uncle's, but it had been four days walk to London since then. But Gamfield, of course, had only fed him him a few crusts of bread on the grueling walk to London, and Oliver, already famished from the ordeal, felt his tongue begin to salivate at the mere mention of the bread and cheese.

"Look at him!" shrieked Mrs. Gamfield, pointing, mortified, at Oliver, "What'd I just tell you!"

Gamfield backhanded Oliver, nearly causing the boy to stumble to the floor. "Thinking about raiding our larder are we?"

In truth, the thought of flitching anything that didn't belong to him, even from such as this couple, had never even occurred to Oliver. But it was doubtful that Gamfield would even have cared.

Oliver cried out piteously, as Gamfield seized him by the collar and drew the boy's delicate face up to his own rough, course, adult visage. "Now see here, you worthless, foundling guttersnipe!" Oliver could smell the alcohol from the Chertsey pub, still on the man's breath. Doubtless, Gamfield was a habitual drunkard, which meant he'd have to grow accustomed to beatings from this man in the future. "Remember your place here! If I _ever_ catch you flitching our food—well, just remember you'll regret the day your mum ever birthed you!"

Tears sprung forth from Oliver's eyes at the mention of his dead mother. Gamfield flung Oliver away.

The boy was now openly sobbing.

"Oh, stop him!" cried Mrs. Gamfield. "I can't abide tears in this house!"

"You 'eard the missus, boy!" roared Gamfield dangerously "Stop those tears!"

But Oliver couldn't help himself.

"I'll fix you!" roared Gamfield. He seized Oliver by the arm and dragged him across the room and down a flight of stairs intoa dismal coal cellar. There were sacks of coal all around, and a heap of sacks in the corner.

"No…" protested Oliver feebly, trying his best to hold back the tears of anguish which were now rolling down his cheeks uncontrollably.

Gamfield flung him roughly to the floor. Oliver gave a weak cry as he went sprawling on the floor. The boy looked back over his shoulder to see that Gamfield seize up a heavy cane, and advanced toward him, his face now a mask of sadistic delight.

"No, please…" Oliver began.

"Wait!" came the voice of Mrs. Gamfield, who had clattered down halfway into the cellar. "Don't kill 'im now! You've got to have 'im fer work tomorrow!"

"So I do yer right missus. Well, Oliver, ya got off easy this time. But make cetain ya mind yer manners 'round here. Like I said, yer no aristo, no more, and we aim to remind ya of it!"

Gamfield clomped up the stairs and shut the door, locking Oliver in.

Oliver was secretly grateful to Gamfield's wife, though she'd spared him the beating, not through any feeling of kindness, but because she noticed he was weak, and could expire before they made good use of him.

What now?

He would just have to wait and see…

Oliver made a nest for himself among the empty coal sacks reluctantly curled up in it, and though he wept for hours into the night, was finally able to lapse into a troubled sleep.

The next morning, the Gamfields gave Oliver a bowl of cabbage soup, which the lad devoured greedily.

Then Mr. Gamfield gave Oliver the tools of his new trade: a flat, bristly chimney sweep brush, and soot-scraper. They dressed him in a rough, open neck shirt and new, tougher breeches. They also gave him a pair of sturdy leather boots, and a chimney sweep boy's cap.

"Ee looks quite the part, now, don't ee?" remarked Gamfield to his wife, as though Oliver were a piece of art of his own personal design.

"Why so he does!" cackled Mrs. Gamfield. "Who'd ever thought ee'd had genteel blood 'in 'iz veins! Heehee!"

And certainly Oliver did. In the ragged, but tough-fibered clothes, the sooty boots, holding the large, fan-like brush, his ash-blond hair sticking out beneath his black cap, the boy looked very much his part. He also had to have been the saddest-looking chimney-sweep boy anyone ever saw.

"Come on, now, young Oliver!" said Gamfield. "It's time to learn your trade."

Gamfield took Oliver deep within the twisting corridors of the streets. "Sweeps Sweeps! The finest Sweeps in London!" Gamfield called.

Oliver, ever the innocent, did not know the reason for Gamfield's boasting, until the door to one of the houses opened, and a woman approached them.

"Ours is due for a sweeping sir!" she told Gamfield.

"Then 'ere we are! Come on, Oliver!"

They followed the woman into the house. She showed them to the chimney. "Careful," she warned them, "this flue's been afire recently, so it's fearsome hot in the walls, and there's plenty 'o soot up there."

"That's just what we take care of ma'am," said Gamfield.

"I'm giving ya warning, sos your boy don't burn his pale little self, or choke."

"Ee's just an apprentice, ma'am, but don't ya fret. Oliver here's got ambition to be the finest chimney sweep London ever saw! 'An 'ees goin to git the job done, ain't ya, Oliver?" And he shot the boy a threatening grimace.

"Yes, sir," said Oliver.

"Good! Now git up there!"

He tied a rope around Oliver's waist. He showed the boy how to position the brush above him in order to loosen the soot. Oliver got down on all fours, and peered up the flue, which extended up into darkness. The smell of the soot was already oppressive.

"What 'ya waitn' fer, boy? I told told ya to git up there! Now move!"

Oliver wriggled up into the chimney. The soot nearly gagged him. The sides of the flue were still bakingly hot, and if Oliver's hands remained in the same place for more than a few seconds, he felt his fingers and palms begin to blister from the heat, and he was forced continue climbing. Several times Oliver cried out from the pain, and was forced to wriggle on his elbows. The flu was absolutely caked with soot, and Oliver's palms were soon black with it.

"Use the chisel, boy!" Gamfield roared from below.

Even for Oliver's thin, frail body, the walls were chokingly tight. But he managed to reach around and wrench the scraper out of his shirt pocket. He began scraping away at the packed soot covering the bricks. The boy began coughing, as the particles stung his nostrils and throat, invaded his lungs. His burning eyes began to water. But fearing Gamfield's terrible temper, he continued to labor as swiftly as he could, scraping the bricks with the chisel, and scraping the sides of the passage with the brush. Loosened soot rained down on Oliver, making the boy gag all the more.

"Keep working, brat!" yelled Gamfield, as though Oliver was deliberately slacking, "No vittles till you've cleaned every inch!"

The boy wriggled up further, pushing the brush before him, pulling himself forward using his arms and elbows. Now he came to an abrupt juncture in the flue which angled sharply to the side. The boy paused there, gasping the heated air, confused at what he should do next.

"Oh, the poor boy may be stuck!" the woman said.

"Naw, ee ain't stuck!" retorted Gamfield. "The lad's still green at this. Ee's gotten as far as the bend in the flue, and ee's confused as to where to go next. _Keep climbn' Oliver! Else there'll be no cabbage soup fer ya tonight!"_

"I-I can't!" cried Oliver, praying in his heart that Gamfield might feel some measure of charity, and allow him to climb down.

"You _will,_ boy!" Gamfield roared, his face going purple with rage. "_You will, or so help me-"_

Oliver wiggled his way into the passage, panting with exertion, his lungs and eyes smarting savagely. He continued to scrape with the chisel and brush, as he wormed his way up into the furthest extensions of the flue.

After what seemed to poor Oliver to have been an eternity, the boy emerged, coughing and gagging, out the top of the chimney. His face and hands blackened form the ordeal, Oliver clung to the sides of the chimney in a daze, blinking the soot from his eyes. The darkness of the chimney was such that the sunlight seemed almost too brilliant for his already stinging eyes to bear.

"What are ya waitn' fer, boy?" he heard Gamfield roar. "Git back down'here!"

Oliver gingerly backed his way down the flu. Several times he was horribly fearful of becoming stuck, but his small size and frail build won out. He and Gamfield scooped up the piles of soot in the fireplace into his black bag. The woman paid them their shillings, and they were back in the street again.

"You did well, young Oliver!" said Gamfield, his jolly mood returned.

Oliver said nothing, walking in a dazed stupor by his side. What had become of his life?

"What? Got nothing to say, lad? I 'spose you're thinking that the fun's all over. Trust me, it ain't! Don't worry, Oliver. There's plenty more flues just waitn' fer ya! Hahahaha!"

And so there were. They stopped at many more houses, and Oliver was forced to repeat the same horrendous endeavor each time, once coming very near to becoming stuck and suffocating in the rain of loosened soot, but once again, Oliver's slight size and build allowed him to wrench himself free.

At last, as twilight began to gather, Gamfield bade them return home.

Mrs. Gamfield burst into laughter upon seeing Oliver's blackened face, and when the boy removed his cap, his long hair, which was now stained charcoal-gray. Both the Gamfields roared with laughter, as the boy only stood there, miserably.

They chortled about him all through their evening meal, as Gamfield described with relish the events of the day. Oliver sat on a stool nearby, bearing their jeers as best he could, his head bowed, his soul borne down with black despair.

They shared not a scrap of their food with him, but after the meal, Mrs. Gamfield offered Oliver some scraps that their dog had neglected to eat; it was like he was at Sowerberry's again, only far worse.

Oliver refused at first.

"Well, go on, boy! Ya got to keep yer strength up!"

And Oliver did take the plate, and devour the meat. It was rancid and spoiled, but all his exertion with no food had left the boy ravenous.

They did give Oliver another bowl of cabbage soup to eat, which was marginally better. Then he was sent to bed, which meant sleeping in the dark coal cellar to await the second day of his apprenticeship.


	20. Chapter 21

21

Young Jacob Taggle worked feverishly at the lock binding his leg to the chain. The boy had located a small wire on the derbis-enfilthed floor, and was using it in an attempt to pick the lock.

He had kept at it for-how long? A hour? A day? A day and night? Perhaps even a week or even longer—Jacob had lost all comprehension of how long he'd been imprisoned in this vile shack, in a place where the sun seemed never, ever to set.

A single, tallow candle lay on the floor, his only light source. Jacob had a book of matches in his pocket, and had had to relight the candle ever so often.

The boy had been tormented by thoughts of his mother and Millie, and a dread of what the monster that Mr. Burton called the Grinning Man might have done to them.

The weird being had brought him here through what seemed to be a tunnel that had simply appear in a featureless brick wall. The brickwork had wavered, shimmered almost, in a fashion that nearly caused young Jacob's eyes to water, and the tunnel yawned before them, leading into unfathomable blackness. The Grinning Man had entered the tunnel, Jacob in tow. Nothing about the tunnel seemed natural in the least. The blackness seemed preternatural. It was too deep to be merely a condition of the absence of any light source. But at the same time, Jacob could easily discern his own hands in front of his face, could just as readily see his captor. But all around them the dark was so utter and complete that he could see nothing of his surroundings or where they were headed.

But the worst of it was distantly, Jacob heard, or thought that he heard the moaning of ghosts. And as they ventured further into the deep dark, the ghostly chorus grew louder. He expected the weird quality of the voices, at first, to be merely a trick of his fanciful imaginings. The better Jacob could discern the voices, the eerier and more ghostly they sounded.

They emerged into what seemed to be a vast open space. Jacob assumed this by the sound of his captor's footfalls that they must be in some sort of vast, carvernous region. Underground, perhaps? Yes, that must be. Yet the eerie phenomenon continued, as that as the darkness surrounding them appeared to be absolute, nonetheless Jacob was able to make out certain objects here: not far from them, there projected some sort of bizarre rock formation. And as they approached it, Jacob could make out the form of a house, or some sort of habitation.

And clearly and horribly did Jacob now hear the wails and moaning of what could only be ghosts.

He also felt the wind on his face. Where they might possibly be boggled the boy's mind. The shack was constructed of wood boards, and what use it might possibly have had, or who had built it, Jacob had no idea. But now, obviously, it was used as a prison for this monster's captives. The Grinning Man chained him to the floor, and left for whatever nefarious endeavors he wished to conduct. He returned at intervals with gifts of bread and cheese for Jacob. On the whole, he treated him rather well; the bread and cheese slices were rather fresh, not moldy, as if they had been purchased at one of London's better vendors. The piteous moaning of spirits out in the darkness continued, nad had the boy allowed them too, the disturbing quality of those intonations might have driven him mad. But he concentrated with all his focus upon the lock which held him captive.

He had cast about until he found at last located the wire on the darkened floor.

At length, though the boy's perseverance was rewarded. There was suddenly a sharp click, and the lock sprang open.

Jacob sat back, mouth gaped open.

He was free. It took his mind a full moment to accept it, but it was true.

The boy lost no time in removing the iron clasp, seizing up the candle, and scrambling to his feet.

Now what? The prospect of venturing out that door into the Stygian darkness of wherever he was seemed even more terrifying.

Could he possibly find his home?

The very thought of it made the boy's soul quail in despair. Somehow, he sensed that he was somewhere that did not exist in the real world, somewhere he could never escape without the agency of his captor. It made no sense, though. He_ had_ to be somewhere real.

The Grinning Man had called it "the underworld." No—"a version of the underworld." That was what he said. What did that mean? Was this place underground? Yes, that had to be it.

But what were those moans? Other captives?

No, from the sound of them Jacob was certain in his heart that they could be nothing other than ghosts.

The weird chorus was not constantly discernible. Sometimes it was utterly silent, and at other times, the terrible groans and moans became frightfully loud.

And when they became so, the unearthly cries were accompanied to the clanking and rattle of iron chains!

What horrors lay in wait out there in the dark?

As dreadfully fearful as the boy was—he could feel himself shake as he anticipated what he was about to do—Jacob walked dazedly toward the door of the shack.

The lad paused there briefly. His breath caught in his throat, and he swallowed thickly.

Jacob gingerly pushed the door open.

Darkness, utter and complete, met his vision.

Jacob stepped forth. The world about him seemed formed of impenetrable, unnatural blackness. Yet, he could still see himself, and not just by the candle light.

The candle did little, if anything to keep the darkness at bay, though it illumed his face in a weird glow.

Bearing the candle before, Jacob Taggle strode forward, quivering with fear, into the unknown darkness.

He hardly knew where he was headed, but he tried walking in the direction he felt pointed toward where the Grinning Man had brought him here. That had to be where the tunnel was that led to the surface. But though Jacob's captor knew his way about without encountering difficulty, the boy felt that his prospect of actually locating the tunnel seemed hideously remote.

His only other, very feeble, hope, was to locate some other clue that could help him decipher where he was, and how he might escape.

What would the Grinning Man do, once he found he had managed to escape? Whatever it was, that thought didn't terrify Jacob nearly so much as what might befall his family with him gone.

And the Grinning Man seemed to consider him a tool more than an ally, and it might not occur to him to punish him. On the other hand, if the ghost-man, as Jacob thought of him, had any further use for him, he might punish him some way as to insure his future compliance, and the thought frightened Jacob all the more.

He'd already forced him to wriggle through a pantry window of a huge estate to accomplish his nefarious purposes. There had been a huge, elegant arty going on, and the grinning man had furnished Jacob with rich clothes, a velvet jacket and silk breeches, and a shirt with laced and frilly ruffles, so that the lad might more easily infiltrate the party. The first thing that Jacob was to do was to locate a boy near his own age name of Oliver, and snatch a white-blond hair form his head. Jacob found only one boy at the party with such a hair color, and Jacob, street-thief that he was, accomplished this most easily and unobtrusively. Next, Jacob hid in a cabinet for the remainder of the party, until the guests retired to their bedchambers. Then he snuck upstairs to accomplish the second part of the mission. He entered the bedchambers of the man whom he was supposed to give the laudenum. He placed the hair strand carefully on the man's pillow, and then used the laudanum the ghost-man had supplied him with, and fled.

Why the grinning man wanted to harm the poor gentleman, Jacob didn't know. The Grinning Man never told him. Perhaps the man was a rich, selfish snob and a corrupt buffoon, but Jacob still felt terrible about what he had done. Worse, the fact that he'd planted the hair could mean only that the ghost-man intended to frame this other boy for the act.

So much laudanum could kill you Jacob knew; his mother told him of grown men who had died of its effects. He wondered if the rich, somewhat overweight gent had died. The Grinning Man seemed satisfied, so perhaps he had. And if so, what would become of the ric boy, the kid he'd framed?

The boy named Oliver?

In any event, Jacob knew his use by the evil entity was only a single cog in the works of a vast conspiracy machine.

The boy kept on venturing, deeper and deeper into the world of darkness. The cabin behind him was now blotted out. There was a slight wind, of unknown origan, and once Jacob felt seized by a horrid dread that his candle might gutter out. But then he recalled that sight in this bizarre region did not seem to depend upon any visible light source. He went on.

He had the impression of vastness around him. In the distance, he could still hear the ghostly wails. They had been silent for some time, but now they seemed to have grown louder.

Then—was it purely his imagination, or had the voices grown a bit louder? Jacob swallowed and kept walking.

Again he discerned a rise in volume, and this time it appeared evident that a train of voices had separated themselves from the rest, and had grown in volume, while the rest of the chorus remained distance.

In spite of the utter blackness, Jacob glanced behind him. There was nothing. He continued on, his held candle a shining beacon in the dark.

Jacob, trembling, placed the apparent volume upon his own overwrought fears.

But soon it became apparent that it was more than merely that; the voices were growing louder.

It was more than one entity, Jacob decided, for now the differences in quality of two distinct voices were evident, even though there were no words, only groans and cries.

Jacob whirled around—and gasped in fright!

For the boy could see them now.

This time, a weird phosphorescent glow pieced the blackness.

Jacob, turned around, remained rooted to the spot, unable to move or look away as the weird light approached.

As it grew nearer, brighter, the hellish green light differentiated itself into two distinct forms.

Jacob, fascinated, saw that they were human-like entities, now approaching him. Though terrified to his core, the boy didn't bother fleeing. To run, he sensed, would be useless in this place.

The beings were terribly visible now. Jacob's eyes widened.

He had been right. These creatures were ghosts.

Their forms cast a weird greenish glow. Each of them were clad in ragged clothes. One was a slightly hunched over old man, with long beard and hair, clad in a tattered overcoat. He wore a wide-brimmed hat. He wore a sly grin, and had small viperfish eyes. The other ghost appeared to be a younger man, though how old Jacob couldn't say: a grownup was a grownup to him. He was large, bulky man with a glowering face. Both men-or spirits, as it were—wore heavy iron chains circled about them. And fastened to these chains which bound the old gentleman were an assortment of metal boxes and various other paraphernalia—watches, jewelry, strings of coins. They were close enough to the boy that he actually thought he could hear the sounded of massed coins shifting in the metal boxes. Fastened to the younger man's chains were other paraphernalia. These included silver plates and kettles, strings of jewelry, silver candle-holders, even a pair of embossed and expensive-looking pistols. They were each weighed down with this expensive junk, in addition to the frightful weight of the iron links themselves.

Jacob held his candle out before him, and brandished it. "Git—git away from me!"

And the old man spoke, in a viperfish, chortling voice. "Come now, my dear! We mean you no harm, lad."

"You—you're ghosts!" cried Jacob.

"Right ya are, my dear!" crooned the old gentleman. "And why are we here, in this place? Because of a young lad name of Oliver, who sent us to our doom!"

"Oliver?" quivered Jacob, recalling the name of the lad with white hair.

"That's right, my dear. He caused a chain of events that led to our being hung. But we don't blame the boy, oh, no. It was our own choices in our former life that were really to blame. We see now how we could have done things so differently. But it is now too late for us."

"That is right." said the other man. "I took the life of someone who loved me and would have died for me. It could have been so different, had I known what I now know. Now I must spend eternity apart from her."

"You are chained," observed Jacob. "Tell me why?"

"We are chained by the sins that bore us down in our lives!" said the old man, his voice now agonized. "Oh, the glittering, false pursuits that led us to our dooms! Now we are forced to travel through the earthly realm beyond this dark domain and witness the suffering that we might have terminated!"

Oh! OOooooH! The world that might have been! The lives that might have been ours!" roared the large ghost. Now Jacob covered one ear; for he now knew the source of those terrible moans.

"W-who are you?" trembled the boy.

"My name," said the older gentleman, "Is Mr. Fagin. Or so it was in the life I so recently quit."

"And my name is Mr. Sikes," the younger man said. "Mr. William Sikes, at your service, lad."

"But what of you, boy?" said Fagin's ghost. "You are still of the living, my dear. This is no place for you. We sensed you had come among us, and we came forth to learn the answer."

Jacob swallowed thickly. Then, tremblingly he began his tale. He told of the strange, vampiric ghost-man whod' threatened his family, of Jack Burton, the strange gentleman who claimed to be form another world, of the his capture by the ghost-man, and how he was forced to poison a rich gentleman, and cast the blame on a lad name of Oliver.

When it had finished, the old man ghost smiled knowingly. Jacob was uncertain how to read that grin.

"My dear," wheedled the ghost of Fagin, "We are most fortunate indeed to have crossed paths with you."

"Most fortunate indeed," agreed the ghost of Sikes.

"For, young Jacob, you have presented us with a means of penance, you have. A small thing, but any chance to relieve suffering in the world of our former villainy is welcome indeed to us!"

"Show us—show us to young Oliver, and we will help you to stop whatever this fiend intends for him." said Sikes.

"I-I don't know," stammered Jacob. "Ee was at the party, that's all I ken tell ya! That's all I know!"

"You 'ave the look of a street urchin," said Fagin, "An I've trained plenty of them in my time! You can track down young Oliver, _and_ these villains. And we will help you!"

"So we will, lad!" said the ghost of Bill Sikes.

"But how?" Jacob almost wailed. "I don't even know my way back from 'ere!"

"Allow us, lad!" said Fagin.

And with that, the two spirits zoomed at Jacob, seized each of his arms, and whisked the lad off his feet.


	21. Chapter 22

22

Oliver Twist woke up to the sound of the cellar door creeking open on its rusted hinges.

The boy sat up, rubbed his eyes. Sunlight was spilling down the steps, pervading what had been utter black.

"Rise and shine, lad! It's another day. Heheheh."

Oliver followed his master up the steps and into the room where his chimney-sweep geer was located.

For a little over a week now, the boy had labored as Gamfield's assistant. The cold, pitch-black celler had been his home at night and his only refuge from the chiding and laughter of the Gamfields, and curses and cuffs from Mr. Gamfield himself.

Already the boy bore bruises, partially from his new guardian's rough treatment of him, but mostly acquired from the work he was forced to endure. But far worse were the effects the smog and chimmney soot were slowly inflicting on his system. Oliver now had a frequent cough, and his eyes smarted terribly form the effects, and often his throat and lungs burned. The boy felt himself growing weak from the lack of nourishment. And he was beginning to experience dizzy spells.

His brutal captors cared not at all, and frequently gloated over Oliver's symtoms. They did not increase his food intake, and told him what little they did afford him was all that he deserved, worthless low-life workhouse brat that he was.

As an added torment, Mrs. Gamfield cleansed the soot from him in a washtub in the evenings, and would rub salt into his open wounds. The pain was blindingly savage, and Oliver had to bite his tongue in order to stifle his screams. Mrs. Gamfeild warned him not to scream out loud, or her husband would beat him. He'd already been visited by the constables for possible mistreatment of his charges, and nither of the Gamfields were about to have that happen again. "He'll flog ya within an inch of yer worthless life, boy," Mrs. Gamfield told Oliver, "if ya so much as ustters one peep. 'Sides, what I'm doins good fer ya. It'll tough yer skin right up!"

But all the time, Oliver clung on to the hope of rescue. Surely his relatives had learned what had happened to him by knew. Surely, they could expose Quigsnip.

At least, Oliver prayed fervently that they would.

Dressed in the ragged clothes and cap of a working chimney-sweep boy, as now Oliver was, he set again with his master. They traveled to a different section, this one slightly more respectible than those they'd been to before, but still the streets overflowed with refuse, and swarmed with urchins, cutpurses, drankards, and hags.

Strangely enough, the boy thought he recognized some of the buildings. Yes, Oliver decided, as he continued to gaze about, this part of London did look familiar. He thougt that he might be somewhere near Fagin's, but his mind was so confused that even his sense of direction was lost.

Gamfield was calling his usual loud voice, advertising his and Oliver's services. "Chimney sweeps! Chimney sweeps for a farthing and no more!"

Business didn't appear to be a very good prospect around these parts, though.

"Ows ya like that lad?" Gamfield complained to Oliver. "Ya'd think someboy'd need their flue cleansed."  
They stopped to rest at nearby stall, and Gamfield bought himself a meat sandwitch. He peeled the crusts off and gave these to Oliver who immediately devoured them. He was careful of course, not to overfeed the lad—he'd heard what a rebel and an upstart this Oliver Twist was, and overindulging the boy could only foster this rebelious nature.

At last, while they were passing a house on their left, a lady appeared in the doorway.

"'Allo, Allo!" she called called. "We're in need of sweeps just now!"

"AH!" exclaimed Mr. Gamfield, "Wells 'ere we are, ma'am."

"Good day, fine sir!" the woman said. "Come in, dears, 'an I'll show you. What a pretty faced-boy _you_ are!" she remarked to Oliver.

"Ah, 'ee might look the angel part," Gamfield informed her. "But don't allow this lad's face to fool ya! 'Ees one right little chimney sweep, 'ee is! Ee always gits the job taken care of."

"Follow me, then," the woman said. Oliver observed her. She was a stout, plumpish, middle-aged woman with light brown, reddish hair, and ruddy, jolly-looking cheeks. She wore an apron and a frilled cap.

Oliver and Gamfield followed her into the main room. The woman pointed at the chimney flue "Think you and the pretty lad can take care of that?"

"Rawt ya are that we can," Gamfield told her, "Oliver, up the flue with ya!"

Oliver, who had learned to be obedient to Gamfield at once, crawled into the flue, and stuffed the bizarre brush up the soot-encrusted shaft. Soot rained down on him, making him gag. The positioning his hands and feet against the blackened, simmering walls, Oliver wriggled his way up and into the flue. The boy had been doing this stifling, lung-choking work long enough by now, that, after a fashion, he was slowing adapting to it. He knew just how to clambor up the flues, and how best loosen the caked soot. He knew how to move swiftly enough to avoid becoming burned. His skin felt as though it had actually toughened up form the salt, just as Mrs. Gamfeild had told him it would.

And today was the day that Oliver had formulated his plan of escape.

When he had progressed about halfway up the shaft of the chimney, Oliver slipped, gave out a sharp, involuntary cry as he slid down the chimney, then caught his fall with his hands and feet panted squarely on the sides of the flue.

"What's goin' on up thar, lad?" Gamfield's harsh voice roared from below.

Oliver didn't answer.

"Yas better answer me, lad!" roared Gamfield.

They waited several minutes, but still no reply from Oliver.

"He may be stuck, sir," the woman said. "Poor young lad!"

"'Ee'd better be," said Gamfield ominously, "'Er, I'll beat the lad within an ich of 'is miserable life! Oliver! Oliver!"

"No, no, ya wouldn't urt the poor lad, would ya?"

"I certainly would!" said Gamfield "You don't know what 'ee was like in the workhouse where I got 'im from! _Oliver!"_

"No, no, man! I ken tell from the look on 'iz face 'ee'd ne'er do one might of wrong, the precious child! I won't let ya 'urt 'im, I won't!" the woman said.

"HAHA! No? Who're you to stop me?" laughed Gamfield.

The woman shot Gamfield a hateful glare, and stalked off in the direction of her kitchen.

"Oliver!" roared Gamfield, bending down and peering up into the dakrness of the flue. "Get the rest of the way up, er I'll roast the soles of yer feet, so help me I will!"

"The devil you will!" cried the woman coming at him with a broom. She jammed the broom handle into the man's side, causing Gamfield to stumble back.

"What ya trying to do, woman?"

"Leave the boy alone! I can tell yas mistreat him! Better do him more kindness, sir, or I'll peach on yas!"

Gamfield was frightened suddenly. He'd allowed his anger at the boy to get the better of him. He could not afford to allow this woman to inform on him; he'd had too many brushes with the law already. And this woman was a employer. What had he been thinking?

In truth, he was unsure that Oliver really was not really stuck. The boy was terrified of his rage—or at least he thought so. Oliver had never defied him like this. There _was_ good chance that something had happened to the boy.

"You!" the woman snapped at him. "Go get the constable! Now! Fore I give you a trashing!"

Gamfield was off and out the door, terrified.

Still halfway up the flue, his hands and feet pressed against the sides, Oliver waited silently.

The woman stuck her head into the flue. "Boy! Boy? You up there?"

Oliver held his tongue. His plan originally had been to wriggle the remaining way to the top, then climb down and somehow escape into the streets. He was already near a section of London that he knew. If he was able to lose Gamfield in the streets, then maybe he could find some of the boys whod' been in Fagin's gang—Charlie, maybe. Dodger, he knew, was in Australia, but maybe Charlie was still around. If he could find him-

"Boy! Can ya 'ear me, boy?"

This woman though, might be his best bet. She was unlike most of the other Gamfield's clients. Oliver felt that he could trust her.

"Yer master's gone to fetch the constable, lad! They'll 'ave ya out soon!"

Oliver began to grope his way back down the shaft. Whe he got to last few feet, he slipped and tumbled, coughing, into the soot-clogged fireplace.

The woman leapt back with a small shriek, coughing herself at the clouds of soot the boy's fall had bdispodged."Oh! Poor child, re ya aright?"

Oliver crawled out of the flue and stood up shakily on his weak legs.

The woman clasped Olvier's frail shoulders and steadied him. "Oh, my poor dear child, ya okay, dear?"

"I..I" Oliver could barely find his voice, so weak he was.

The woman shook him lightly "Speak up, boy! Yer master'll be returnn' soon!"

Miraculously, Oliver found his voice. "Please," he begged weakly, in a piteous saprano voice, "please help me! That man! He's not my master at all!"

"Yer apprenticed to 'im ain't ya?"

"No!" cried Oliver,tears leaking from his eyes. "They kidnapped me, and sold me to him!"

"Kidnapped ya! Oh, my sweet child! 'Oo kidnapped ya?"

"Mr Quigsnip's gang! Took me from real guardian, and my aunt and uncle, and sold me to that horrible man!"

"_Oo's _gang did they kidnapp ya from, Oliver dear?"

Oliver was choking with sobs now, tears cutting runnels down his soot besmirched cheeks. "Mr. Quigsnip!" he cried.

Though Oliver was too overcome with anguish at the moment to take notice, the woman's face had gone very white.

All of the boy's pent-up grief was gushing out of him. How he'd managed to contain up until now Oliver couldn't have said. "_Please!" _Oliver wept, "Please, ma'am, please hide me before they come back!"

"Hush, boy!" she told him severely, shaking Oliver's shoulders "Hush, or they will hear ya! Course, I'll hide ya boy! I can't let them take ya, not now, not ever!"

She took Oliver by the hand, and led him to a trap-door in the kitchen floor. She unbolted the latch. Oliver saw that there wasa wooden staircase descending inot the gloom. "Git down there!" she told him. "Afore ee returns!"

Oliver, having no recourse at the moment but to trust her, scrambled swift as he could down the stairs. The place,he saw, was a small storage area. There were sacks of flour and grain, and rude wooden shlves of preserves and dried fruit.

"Stay there!" she ordered him once more as she closed the door above him and bolted the latch. Oliver didn't have long to wait. Soon there came the sharp rap of a billy-club on the door. The woman opened it, to find Mr. Gamfield standing outside with a constable.

"Morning, ma'am," said the officer "I'm 'ere on account that Mr. Gamfield 'ere tells me that young lad workn' fer him has become stuck in yer flue."

"That's right, sir," she told him. "But I haven't 'eard form the poor boy since Gamfield left to fetch you, sir. I fear the poor lad has—"

"I'll be the judge of that, Miss." The officer pushed past her into the house. He looked about, then strode over to the flue and examined it. The officer bent down and peered up the shaft.

"Allo boy! You up there?"

"If ya don't mind my saying, sir," the woman said, "I fear that the boy may have tricked us."

The officer turned quickly to her. "What do you mean?"

"Why, that maybe that the boy may have been waiting fer 'is master to leave, then got out on the roof, and then away. He looked to rather like 'is master mistreats 'im sir."

"That's an outrage, Miss!" roared Gamfield, his face turning red.

The constable turned on him. "Allow me to be the judge of _that,_ as well!"

Heturned back to the woman.

"It's only that the boy looked half-starved to me, sir. And the woefully sad look on his face."

"We'll look into it ma'am. Mr. Gamfield has a rather poor record, I'm afraid, of 'is apprentices.'

"Not so! Ah take right good car 'o my boys."

"Then what became of the others?" asked the constable.

Gamfield said,"Ah been pardoned officer. If you know about them boys, sir, yas know ah was pardoned."

"So you admit their deaths! Tragic, really. Well, let's not allow another child to fall victim to your ill-use! Let's findout what's become of this apprentice-boy."

He tapped with his billy club several times upon the chimney flue, walked around it, tapped some more. He then looked up into it, and got back out. "Where did you suppose the boy to become stuck."

""alfway up, sir," said Gamfield.

"Then I'm afraid from the sound of the echoes in the flue that the missus is right," the officer concluded. "Mr. Gamfeild, sir, your apprentice must have escaped through the top of the chimney, then climbed down into the street—by means of the drainpipe, maybe—and run off."

"_What!"_

"That is the manner in which it appears, sir."

Gamfield could scarcely contain his rage. "I'll murder that foundling brat! Wait till I catch 'im!"

"You'll do nothing of the sort sir!" said the constable. "But as an officer of the law, I'm bound to find and return your apprentice to you. See also that you treat him well! Good day."

The officer took his leave, and Gamfield, after swearing an oath of revenge on young Oliver Twist, soon followed.

Once satisfied that the men were truly gone and away, she unbolted the trapped door. "Come on! Come up, young Oliver! Yer safe now, dear!"

In a daze, Oliver made his way up the stairs. The past eternity of minutes had been agonizing for him. At any second hehad expected the constable or Gamfield to clomp their way into the kitchen and open the door to his hiding place. The boy's heart had thumped wildy in his small chest, as every passing second he had anticipated discovery.

The boy looked her woozily, dizzy with relief.

She smiled at the boy and clasped his shoulders. "That's right, boy. Yer safe. Safe an sound as a bedbug ya are, sweet."

"Thank you, miss. Thank you so much."

And Oliver, overwhelmed from the sense of relief at having eluded discovery, or perhaps from the build up of terror in the last half hour, collapsed into her arms in a dead faint.


	22. Chapter 23

23

"Look! Ee's finally comin 'round!"

""Ere ee is!"

Oliver blearily opened his eyes.

How much time had elapsed before he had fainted, the lad had no idea.

His vision slowly coalesed into focus.

Two women stood over him. Both were peering down on him intently. One, Oliver immediately recognized as the woman who had taken the liberty of hiding him from Gamfield—and in this he immediately felt a surge of gratitude for her.

The smell of cooking was immdiately prevelant in the air, some hot soup or some such, and this made Oliver's starved tastebuds fairly scream with anticipation.

The second woman, Oliver noted, was a good deal thiner and bonier than his plumpish benefactor, but appeared much the same age. She had a longish beak of a nose,a curious, rather than symapthetic gaze, as she studied him, and she reminded Oliver, somewhat uncomfortably, of Mrs. Gamfield. Strands of iorn-gray hair curled out form beneath her frilled cap.

"Look at 'im," the plumpish woman said, "Oh, doesn't 'ee 'ave the face of an angel?"

"'Ee might," said the thin lady sourly, "but you know 'ow these boys are! The chimney sweep man said 'ee got 'im form the work'us, rawt? Those work'us boys are rawt bad 'uns, they are! Least most of 'em. Future street trash. You'd best not trust this 'un."

"Oh, I told you, the poor boy says ee was kidnapped!'

"Kidnapped! Hah!"

Oliver relaized that his head heart, and he felt chilled and shivery all over. It must mean he had a fever. "Please!" he told them. "I-I think I may be coming down with somethin ma'am."

"Don't let this boy wheedle ya, Clara,"the thin woman warned.

"Can't ya tell 'ee's not thief, Edna? Just look at 'im," Clara said. She placed a pumpish hand upon Oliver's forhead. "Yes, so you might, Oliver. Come over here by the fire, Oliver, 'an I'll get you some 'ot soup."

She gave Oliver a wood stool by the fireplace, which was now crackling at hot with a new fire, which at this moment was cooking a kettle of some delicous, spicy-smelling soup.

Clara removed the lid, and ladled the soup out into a wood bowl. She carefully handed the soup to Oliver who took in his thin-fingered hands. She got him a spoon for it as well, though it was still far too hot to be eaten.

Oliver was so hungry though that he might have lapped it up without any spoon, and even gottn himself burned in the porcess. As he allowed the soup to cool, he allowed the steam to deliciously warm his face.

Clara got a think woolen blanket, and wrapped it around the boy's frail shoulders. Then sat herself in a chair near the fireplace.

Edna, the thin woman who appeared to be her friend, sat in a chair nearby, watching intently.

Oliver savored the to-him-heavenly scent of the hot,rich, creamy soup, as its' spicy scent wafted up his notrils. So much was the boy distracted by it that he didn't hear when Clara asked him, "So, tell us about yourself, boy. I so really want to hear.'

"Yes, tell us," said Edna. Edna's tone sounded less curious than suspicious.

"Oh!" cried Oliver. "I want to thank you, miss. For saving me from that awful man."

"It was very much our pleasure to do it," said Clara.

"If your story is genuine, that is," opined Edna. "Git on with it, boy,"

"Okay," Oliver told them. "I'll tell you everyhthing." And he did, staring with his birth in the parish poorhouse. Halfway through his tale, he couldn't keep from gulping down his soup, which had cooled enough by then. He noticed that Clara seemed emotionally distraught during certain parts of his description of Fagin's gang and the ensuing incidents that had led to the discovery of his parentage. When he got to the part about Quigsnip, he noticed that both women's eyes had gotten very large and round. All trace of suspicion of him appeared to have evacted Edna's eyes. He then backtracked in his tale and related the brief incident in which he and Losberne had encountered the curious hunchback man in the Cherstsey river house. He then proceeded with his tale, how he'd been framed for the attampeted laudanum poisoning of a man named Bentley Drummle, a man who didn't apporve of his uncle making him heir the estate, and how Quigsnip had sold him to Gamfield for twenty farthings.

Both women were silent for a few minutes. Then Clara spoke. "Young Oliver, it is very fortunate that you happened to us."

"What do you mean ma'am?"

"First, Oliver," she said, let us explain. "Oliver Twist. Yes, yes, I believe we know you."

"Maybe from the newspapers, ma'am." Oliver said. He noticed then, that Clara's voice seemed less of a London cockney accent now, and more like his own. Her accent had changed. Perhaps she'd been concealing her true accent, for a reason? Oliver had always spoken with a genteel accent, though no one could have said why, not even Oliver himself.

"Oh, yes, we remember the Fagin gang. It was right around here that they practiced their trade as it were, and we remember when they were rounded up." Here Clara choked with tears, and began to wipe them from her eyes.

"Don't cry, ma'am," said Oliver, his heart responding to the sorrow of one who had shown him such kindness.

"I am fine," she said. "Anyway, let me tell you. Edna and I were living here then. We both remeber you. You were the little boy we saw outside our windows that day."

"What day, ma'am?"Oliver asked.

"The day we saw that big man catch you, and then knock you unconscious. You said you didn't know him. But we…we encouraged him. And part of my fault may have been…the young woman who was with him. I didn't want to believe you because of her."

Oliver remembered the day he was recaptured by the Fagin gang. Nancy had found him, and Sikes had clubbed him over the head. He'd scarcely been aware of the women who had obser ved it all.

"Yes, it was us, I'm afraid young Oliver." Clara told him. "But I have much more to tell you, much that relates to your present tale. My name is Clara Whittle. It is my given Christian name, but not one I was alwys known by. When I was a young woman in my nineteenth year, I happened to meet, at a theatre production of Shakespeare's _Macbeth_, a young man with whom I fell in love. We got to talking, you see about the acting and theatrics, and so forth. A great redition of the play, it was. He had a wonderful appreciation of theatre, you see, and a great many other things as he was humpbacked, and walked in a stooped over fashion—ah, I see, boy, that you recognize at once the main subject in my tale—he was rather a handsome man in those. I remember—he was losing hair on top rather early, but still young-looking, with thin, aristocractic features. Yes, he was good-looking then, back in his twenties, and in spite of humpback, although I must admit to you in a sly, crafty, almost viperish fashion. But he had a way about him, he was high-culture, and he made me laugh. We started seeing each other regularly. My father only partially approved. He never really liked the man, but he came form a genteel background, and it turned out he had ammassed a great deal of personal wealth. Most of this was the selling and bargaining of highly expensive and sought-after antique furniture and other goods. He also owned a number of houses and apartments in about London, and these he rented out regularly. But he'd gained both wealth and reputation in apprehending criminals and returning stolen goods to their owners at exorbiant wages. And this, I think, was my father's mian reason for allowing his hand in my marriage."

Oliver gasped.

"Yes, I know. It was not a good thing, marrying Mr. Zebedias Quigsnip. But I had no idea that he was secretly staging the criminal acts for whose participants he pretended to apprehend. I had no idea that even some of the goods he bought and sold came form criminal trafficking. Not until much later. But the worst of it was that I didn't realize what a selfish, controling man he was until after we were married. Then his real nature began to show itself by degrees. Oh, at times he took me places, showed me off at parties, bought me things. But other times he would keep confined to the house for weeks on end. And he'd never allow me to speak at most social functions unless spoken to. I think he just wanted to see how much control, he could exert over his wife. Then there were his rages. And there were other things about him too..perhaps I should not relate….but within a year we had our first child, a girl. He actually was very fond of her, and I'll admit brought her up well. It was two years later that we had our second child, also a girl. He was never quite as fond of her as the first, but believe me, for all of his faults, my husband sincerely loved them both. But in our first daughter's thirteenth year, he discovered that she was pregnant. By whom, we don't know. But believe me, my husband could not take the shame. He'd had his rages before, Oliver, but I had never seen him like this. I honestly supposed that he was about to kill her! He tore up the house, smashing furniture and china. But he still did not lay a hand upon her. He merely ordered her out of our house. I would have taken her and child in, but I dared not speak out against my husband! Only later did I discover that my husband had actually instructed an underworld assoiciate of his, whom he had complete trust in, to take in his daughter, and raise her. This was an older Jewish man named Fagin, a fence who sold goods to him. And so raise her he did, trained as a pickpocket along with his boys. Her name was Nancy."

Oliver was silent, staring at Clara with wide, distended eyes.

"His other daughter lives with him still. He loves her very much, but I fear he keeps her under lock and key as much as he can, for fear the same fate will befall her. And me? I left him soon after he sent Nancy away. I regret it now, in that in doing so, I also turned my back on my other daughter. But I wanted nothing more to do with that man. Mostly, I feared him and what he was capable of—for good reason."

She said nothing more for several long moments.

Then Oliver asked, "You said Nancy was pregnant. Do you know what became of her child?"

"I'm not sure exactly. I'd heard tell it was a boy, and that he wound up in the Parish workhouse among the other nameless orphans. That's all I know."

"What year did it happen?" Oliver asked timidly.

"1833."

_1833. The year after he had been born._ Was it the same workhouse, Oliver wondered. Did Bumble end up naming the child's first name "Richard," and his surname "Swubble"?

"And after she fled from Mr. Quigsnip," Edna said, "I agreed to hide her, and keep her safe. We both feared that Quigsnip would seek some kind of terrible revenge on us, since Clara was out from under his thumb at last, but he never did. She changed her name back, to avoid anyone linking her to Mr. Quigsnip. And you're right—she changed her accent as well, to blend in with the people 'round these parts. I suppose he still had some affection from. I was a good friend of her father's fmaily, you see."

"But believe you me,Oliver," Clara said severely at the boy. "Mr. Quignsip is an absolutely ruthless man with those who have crossed to him. From what you've tell me, it's you he blames for his—_our_—daughter's death at the hands of 've escaped Gamfield, and that man looked easy enough to make a fool of. But not Quigsnip. He has contects all over London, and he won't quit until he has exacted his vengenace, Oliver. You've taken a person from him he truly loved, and he won't stop until he's deprived you of all you love.'

"What—what can I do?"

"Ringht now, you've got to sleep, Oliver. You have a fever."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Tommorrow, we will tell you."

They gave Oliver a comfortable bed , with a soft mattress, and warm wollen blankets. Oliver snuggled gratefully into them and soon the boy was lost in a deep, dreamless slumber.


	23. Chapter 24

24

The next day, Oliver woke up. Clara and Edna fixed him a breakfast of eggs and sausages, which Oliver ate gratefully.

"Now," Clara told the boy, once they had him seated on a stool. "If you do precisely as we tell you, we may be able to defeat my former spouse."

Oliver listened intently as he sat huddled there, this thin arms clasped around his knobby knees. The boy's large eyes were wide.

"There is a special box in which he keeps all of his secret documents. He also has a special key that opens it. What he never found out was that I had a dupilcate key of my own made. I am going to entrust this key of mine to you, Oliver."

"But how will I find the box?" the boy asked her. "It would mean that I would need to—" Oliver gasped slightly.

"Yes, yes that's right boy,"Edna told him. 'You will need to take her key, and enter the house of Zebedias Quigsnip."

"The house by Chertsey bridge?" Oliver asked.

"No," Edna told him. "A different house in the east business district of London. It has a storefront sign which reads, Zebedias Quigsnip: Antiques and Furnishings."

"How will I find it?"

"It is easy to find if you know the way. You're a clever boy, Oliver. When you were with the Fagin gang, did you not learn your way around the city?

"Well…only part of it."

"The store is rather far from here," Clara told him, "but I have a map that will show you the way. Now…you must be very clever lad, to enter Quigsnip's lair undiscovered."

"Will Mr. Quigsnip be there?"

"I can't say for certain," Clara said. "You must enter at night, when the store is locked up. But even if Zeb himself is not present, he usually has someone minding his horde by night."

"Then how will I get in—and without being seen?" Oliver trembled.

"You may need to find a way out on your own, boy," said Edna.

"But—"

Edna held up her hand, "Surely, in the time you spent with London's thieves, they must have taught you something about picking locks and entering buildings. And remaining hidden."

"Maybe they would have," said Oliver, "But I refused to steal for them, so I never really listened. They did use me for a burglary once, when Mr. Sikes and Mr. Crackit put me through the window at Maylies'."

Edna sharply looked at Clara. "A window—is there such a window at Quigsnip's?"

"I fear there is not," she said,"At least there is none that I no window of which is left unbolted. Quigsnip is undoubtedly aware that there are child-theives too, and that they abound in London."

"Then how can I get in?"

"The chimney perhaps," Edna suggested. She raised an eyebrow at the boy. "Mr. Gamfield has apprenticed you well, I trust, dear?"  
"But how-?" Oliver asked.

"Shush! you must find a way, any way that you can."

"She's right, Oliver," said Clara, "You must indeed, if you are to save yourself, your family, and perhaps all of London."

"All of London?"

"Yes!" hissed Edna "That is correct, boy! All of London may be counting on you for this!"

"Find the safe," Clara instructed, "He keeps it on a shelf in a cabinent in the back room. The cabinet looks like it hold only curiousities, but there is a hidden door on the third and upper shelf. It slides back to reveal a compartment in the wall. Can you remember that, my dear?"  
"I think—"

"Do not think, boy!" said Edna. "Tell us!"

"I will! I will remember it!"

"Very good," said Clara. "Now—you need more rest, boy, before your journey tonight."

"Tonight?"

"Yes, you must leave here before sundown, and reach the store under the cover of darkness."

"What if Mr. Quigsnip himself is there?"

"He should not be," said Clara. "He is likely sleeping in one of his houses, of which there are several. Most he's renting out, so I can't be sure which he is staying at the time."

The women let Oliver sleep for the rest of the day. But late in the evening, they showed him an intricate map of London, and gave him directions on how to reach Quigsnip's antique shop. They gave Oliver a few slices of thin bread, slices of cheese, and a few strips of cold bacon, and a small bottle of tap water for Oliver, as well as a few matches and candlesticks. And of course, the key to the safe. These, along with the London map, which they rolled up, they placed in a packet with a strap which they had Oliver wear over his thin shoulder. Then they wished him the best of luck. Clara, surprisingly to Oliver, even kissed him on the forehead before they sent him on his way.

And then Oliver was on his journey through the swarming crowns of the twisting backalley streets.

The boy walked and walked. As the skies darkened, shadows began to invade the alleyways. Oliver's feet grew tired, but he kept on. He kept thinking that he might catch sight of a fmailiar face amogn the London underclass, but he never did. He made certain to slip into a corner aand out of sight if he caught sight of a constable or anyone who might be working for Mr. Quigsnip who might recognize him.

Some of the scraggly dogs, canine street urchins, came around on more than one occasion. They were after the bacon in Oliver's pack, which they undoubtedly smelled. They yapped growled and sniffed at the sack, until oliver, though he knew he had his own stength to keep up, kindly offered the mongrels no less then three of his coveted bacon strips.

Before long, night had stollen over the city, cloaking the streets in darkness. Oliver kept to the shadows, his small size affording him lack of visibility. He re-checked his map repeatedly by the glow of the gas-lit street lamps.

At last he stood in the shadow of a corner, just out of the light of one of the lamps. In its feeble radience, the boy the storefront clearly from across the street. The words: Zebedias Quigsnip: Antiques and Furnishings were painted in black across the front, and repeated on the small sign hanging on the outside.

There was no person in sight; in fact the street corner sounded eerily silent, save for the far-distant barking of one of the feral dogs. The store itself certainly had the appearance of being deserted. The windows were black, and Oliver fancied that hey stared out at him like the sockets of a skull.

Even supposing that no one were here, how could he gain entrance?

Oliver did not care for the look of the place at all. He wanted to flee from it, to run back through the maze of London's byways and out into the country to search for his friends and protectors. But he remembered what Clara had told him. Possibly everyone in London had heard the news of the attempted poisoning of Bentley Drummle by now, and he might never be safe until he had proof of his innocence.

Summoning forth all his courage, Oliver dashed madly across the gas-lit street to the front of the store. The boy crept around each window, even gingerly tried the front door. Then he went around the sides and the back. Everything was locked, and very tightly. Perhaps the roof…

There was a chimney, he noticed. And the roof was not very high. But it was far out of his arms' reach. Then Oliver remembered something. He stole back around the buildng until he came to a large pickle-barrel. With some exertion, he pushed the barrel up against the side of the building. The boy climbed up onto the barrel, then stood up. He reached up, siezed the edge of the roof, and scrmbled up onto it. Oliver crawled up the slats. When he reached the roof's summit, Oliver very gingerly made his way across it, forcing himself not to look down on either side. At length he reached the chimney. There was no rope around him this time, but Oliver nonetheless climbed into the mouth of the chimney. Gamfield had taught him to find hand and footholds. Fortunately, Oliver had learned quickly and easily. Once within the shaft, the boy placed his hands and feet against the the soot-encrusted sides, and began to grope his way down. The shaft had been cleaned not long ago, and fortunately for Oliver the amount of soot which clung to the sides was minimal. It did blacken his plams and the soles of his feet, and burned his nostrils and lungs; though, Oliver, by now accustomed to chimneys, felt its burn considerably less fiercely then it would have prior to his apprenticeship.

He tried with all his stength not to cough or to sneeze, and to make as very little sound as was possible, in case some guard lurked in the rooms below. The going was slow and torturous, the soot making him gag and to gasp in order to draw in the feeble quantity of air within the shaft. He despretately wanted to descend more quickly, but he didn't dare risk it. By the time he had descended it full length, his frail limbs felt nearly on fire with the effort. But at last he let lose and sprang lightly down into the cold, dead fireplace. He fell on his knees and crawled out. Everything was as black as pitch; Oliver waved his hand in front of his nose, but saw nothing but blackness. Feebly, he moved forward into the utter black, nearly colliding with what had to be a table, then stumbling over a chair. Oliver felt himself crash into the floor, the sound of his fall terrifyingly loud in the darkness. For a number of horridly long seconds,Oliver froze, his ears straining into the eerie black silence for some sign that he his presence had been detected, and that he must conceal himself.

Nothing.

The boy gingerly got to his feet, then dared to breath.

Oliver continued to grope. The boy felt a very light draft against his face. He groped in that direction through the dark, his heart slamming wildly in his chest, until his fingers found what could only be a wooden staircase leading up.

Oliver unshouldered his packet. He fished out a candle and match. Warily, he stuck the match on the side of the stair, and lit the candle. In the feeble, yellow-orange glow, he could see the wood stairs leading up into the gloom. Just barely, he could make out what looked like the frame of a doorway at the very top. The door itself appeared to be shut.

Though he dreaded looking back for fear of what the candle might reveal creeping up upon him, Oliver made himself whirl around. In the eerie glow he saw a portion of a rudely furnished room with the table and the chiars, one of which he'd tripped over, as well as some cabinets, and stored goods just beyond the light's reach. In and out, in and out the boy breathed. For a moment, Oliver dreaded seeing a dark form come tearing out of the gloom at him, but the candle reveal nothing.

_Creak._

Oliver, shocked, whirled back to the stairway and gazed up . The sound had issued from far above, somewhere in the main store. Exactly from what location it had come, he found himself unable to fasten upon with any clarity. It was probably only caused by the wind outside gusting about the shutters, or the house settling. Or perhaps not.

It took all the courage he possessed, but Oliver forced himself to asend the stairs, caution guiding his every step. There was a sudden scuttling and a shrill squeal off somewhere to his right, a sound Oliver knew, from long experience, to be that of rats infesting the walls of this place. What he dreaded most of all was coming face-to-face with Quigsnip himself in his lair of villainy. The hunchback teriffied the boy almost beyond reason. Every second he dreaded seeing the man's horrid face leering out of the shadows at him, wearing a sadistic expression of triumph.

_Got you, Oliver!_, he could nearly hear the cripple's voice rasping at him. But he knew that his family and fortune were at stake, and he forced himself to venture on.

_Rose,_ part of him wondered, _where is Rose now?_ Captured by the gang? Or had she made it to her husband's, or to her guardian's?

After an eternity of steps, Oliver stood before the door. He pressed against it, fearing it might be locked on the other side.

It wasn't.

Gingerly, Oliver pushed the door open, its hinges squealing, frazzling the boy's nerves.

The room beyond was cloacked in weird shadows, the strange shapes of the ancient antiques and furnishings appearing like a company of black goblins in the gloom.

Oliver's heart was thudding so loud that the pounding of the blood in the boy's ears seemed deafening.

What lay out there? He didn't want to venture further, but he knew he must. His slender hand, holding the candle, was visibly quivering, painting the entire room in wavering, hellsih flickers.

_The cabinet._ That was what Quigsnip's wife had told him. _The cabinet_ _in a room in back of the store._

Oliver cast around with his candle. Again the light revealed no human presence, but the store seemed huge, and most of it remained in the dark unkown. The light shone about on a vast array of antiques and curios, inclduding what seemed to be some very rare and expensive furniture. Oliver saw that he was near the front of the store. He saw the two front windows and the door between them. He could easily see the street corner on which he'd stood a scant time ago in the pallid luminance of the gas light.

Oliver waved the candle about some more. Then satisfied that there was no one who had observed his intrusion, the boy made his way toward the back of the store, between two rows of furniture. Upon locating the back wall, he found a blackly gaping doorway. Holding the wavering candle before him, Oliver swallowed and strode through it. This room was much like the one he'd passed through, stuffed wall-to-wall with antiques. Oliver's candle illuminated rows of stuffed animals, a leering jack-in-the –box whose facial features chillingly resembled those of the store's hunchbacked proprieter, and an assembly of rare china dolls, whose glassy stares and porcilan faces were rendered unnerving by the covorting light.

Oliver moved his arm to the right, and—

There was the cabinet. Oliver's heart gave a sudden leap as he was certain that this was the correct one. The shelves were well crowded with ceramic dishes, small glasswork figures, and a myriad of additional curios, but the boy's gaze was drawn, magnate-like, to the square of wood raised and carved to resemble something that looked like a scene of Greek myth, with a ship, and ladies in robes that might have been sirens. Oliver reached up and pressed in on this.

For a moment, nothing happened, the fear suddenly welled in him that he was mistaken after all! But then he felt the apparently solid sculpture give beneath his finger tips. It pushed in slightly, then slid back. What it revealed was a tiny doorway through the back of the antique cabinet leading into a hollow space in the wall. Oliver testily shone his candle near the aperture.

There was nothing.

Oliver drew the candle nearer. The space, he now saw, was fairly large, certainly enough to conceal a good-sized chest. But save for some filmy gray cobwebs, it was utterly empty.

Oliver's heart sank in his chest. Was this what he'd come all the way across London for, possibly risking his life?

The boy was nearly overcome by misery, when he heard something snap somewhere near the front of the store. Oliver whirled around, his hand trembling, setting off wild flickering light over the room, his heart hammering so madly he feared it would burst. But still he saw nothing. The sound might have been made by anything.

There seemed nothing else for him to do here. If the chest lay somewhere else within the store, he had no idea where it might be. Most likely Quigsnip had sensed that it might be discovered and removed it. All Oliver wanted right now was to be out of this dreadful place and away from here. The boy stole back the way he had come. He re-entered the front room. Now that he was inside, he could probably unlatch the front door, and leave that way.

As Oliver turned in that direction, holding his candle at arm's length, the light fell upon…

Oliver gasped, as the gnawing dread within him was at last realized.

Between himself and the door stood a man, one of Quignsnip's hirelings.

He was a very tall, burly man, the same man who had reminded Oliver so much of Sikes when he'd met him at the Chertsey house.

Bludger.

He grinned at the Oliver, and his smile was horrible. He must have been hiding in the shadows all this time. "Well," Bludger smirked, "What do we 'ave 'ere? Little Oliver, come back to save his precious fortune!"

Oliver gaped at him. He found himself rooted to the spot, incapable of either moving or speaking, as the candle in his shaking hand painted the man's hard features luridly.

"I knew it was you, yung Oliver, I suspected it all along. I know the footfalls of a lad from those of a man right enough! So I snuffed my own candle, 'an waited in the shadows to see what you were up, to, boy. Had a yerself bit of a disappointment, didn't cha, lad?"

Still, Oliver didn't speak. His gaze remained horridly fixated on Bludger. His tongue felt dry as a husk.

"Well, it ain't 'ere lad, as I'm raight certain ya know by now! Ya want to know where the box is, do ya, boy? Don't know who told ya of it, but its safe enough from a filthy urchin like you. Wells, ah 'spose it won't matter too much, se'en' as you won't leave this place alive! The constables raided this place the other night, but they ne'er found it, on the accout that Mister Quigsnip handed it over Bentley Drummle, the gent you tried to poison with laudenum, 'an its safe in his mansion as we speak."

"I didn't—"

Bludge gave a course laugh."'Course ya didn't, O-li-ver! Don't ya think we both know that, boy? Yer heart would probably shatter if you so much as crushed a petunia. Hahaha!"

Oliver now saw for the first time that Bludger held in his right hand a fireplace poker. The man's chrotle had scarcely died on his lips before, he lunged at Oliver, rasing and slashing down at the boy with the poker.

Oliver barely had time to duck to one side as as the iron rod slashed down where he had been. Somehow, the boy managed to both evade the thrust and hold onto his candle, whose light now rendered his tormentors face demonically.

Raising his poker, Bludger came at Oliver again. The boy dove under a table before he brought it down. Oliver scrambled in further. Curling himself into a corner,he held the candle in fornt of him, and pinched out its flame, dousingthe light, and plunging the room into darkness. Then he wriggled out on the other side of the table, ducking under another.

"_Where are ya!"_ he heard Bludger rage into the darkness. "_Where are ya, ya measly, sniveling workhouse brat! Think ya can outwitt 'ol Bludger, do ya? Ahm, gonna skewer yer hide on this poker, when I find ya!"_

Still holding his candle, Oliver crawled out into the ailse and down it, pulling himself on his forearms. Bludger was still venting his rage at the shadows and striking his weapon at nothing when Oliver scrambled madly to his feet,and made a mad dash for the front door. He fingered madly at the lock. But before he could unlatch it and fling himself out to freedom, Bludger discerned his presence and came roaring at him.

Oliver flung himself away, this time so narrowly evading the poker that he oculd feel the wind of its passage over him. His only method of escape cut off, Oliver flung himself toward the only route left open to him—the stairs. He plunged down the staircase into utter darkness the basement. He tried to run in what he assumed must be the direction of the chimney, but again tripped over something—he was never sure what this time—and fell crashing into the floor. Above him, he could hear Bludger's course laughter. Then he heard the man's heavy, self-assurred steps creaking down the stairs. Bludger was certain his victim could not escape.

Oliver wriggled madly across the floor. There was only one chance for him. He had to wriggle himself up into the chimney. He knew how to do it, and Bludger was too large and heavy to follow. He scrambled around some more, but realized that he could see nothing. Oliver reached in and fumbled his fingers around madly inside his pouch until he felt t a match. He drew it out, struck against the floor and tremblingly relit his candle. In the wavering light before him he saw the chairs, the table—where was the fireplace?

He scrambled around in the direction of his pursuer, and saw another light bloom in the dark, chasing the shadow's from Bludger's face. Oliver crawled away into the cloaking shadows as swiftly as he could, regretful that had again lit his own candle.

"I have a candle too, boy! Don't think ya can hide from me! Where are ya? Ah, there! Ah sees ya right enough, O-li-ver!"

Oliver saw the fireplace, and wriggled in its direction, but he was too late. Bludger had seen him, and was now roaring at him with the poker. The boy grappled to his feet, and threw himself forward. He was weakned by this entire ordeal, his lungs beginning to burn form exporsure to soot, but still he managed to evade the hulking adult, and to throw himself further into the shadows.

"Don't think ya can get away up the chimney flu, boy!" Bludger was saying, "if ya do, I'll roast ya, like the squealer ya are!"

Oliver knew he was right. If he had attempted to escape up the flu, Bludger would have set a fire in the fireplace, which would have turned the walls of his escape route scorching hot. He would have been roasted alive before he could possibly have reached the top.

But there was no where else to go.

Lit luridly in the flickering glow of both their candles, the hulking adult grinned horridly down at young Oliver, who could merely stare mutely back, despair filling his large blue eyes.

"Time to greet your Maker, work'us brat!" sneered Bludger, as he drew his poker back.

Oliver knew the man meant it. He was about to be gutted like a Christmas turkey. Unless…

On sheer impulse, Oliver hurtled his own candle, the only weapon he had, square in the hulking man's face with all his meager child's strength.

Caught off-guard, Bludger reeled back screaming, as the metal poker clattered harmlessly to the floor. Oliver stared, as the fire caught onto Bludger'shirt. The man's own candle had falled to the floor, and the guttering flame had caught hold of the leg of a table. The man, still screaming, stumbled back into the shadows, hiding him form the boy's view.

There was temendous crash, deafeningthe boy's ears.

Oliver gasped in horror and jumped back, eyes wide, as the light from a raging inferno blazed up, throwing back the shadows. The man's entire body was billowing with flame. He had fallen directly into his employer's wine cabinet, where Quigsnip kept his most expensive vinteges, the ones that he'd served the constables Vittles and bottles had burst, drenching Bludger in alchohol. Now the fire from the small candle was consuming him.

Oliver lost no time in racing for the stairs and flying up them. In the next instant he was at the front door, working madly at the latch, as Bludger's howls continued to roar up from the basement. The latch pushed through and Oliver was out the door, racing off down the cold London street, his light footfalls echoing on the cobblestones, as the boy vanished into the damp, foggy, gaslit night.


	24. Chapter 25

25

Oliver ran and ran until he found an old abandoned building, surrounded by large wooden fence. Being very thin, the boy was able to duck under the fence and wriggle through.

Oliver stood and observed the place. It looked like it might have once been a mill or something like it. But dawn was coming soon, and in his weakneded sate, he knew that he was no condition to walk all the way back to thehome of Clara Quigsnip.

But,he decided, going back there would be his best course of action. Bludger had made one mistake, telling him where the safe-box was. But he had no idea where Mr. Drummle lived, or how he could find it in all London. His uncle, Lord Peter, probably knew, or could at least find out. But it was leagues form here to his uncle's mansion. No, he would retrace his steps back to Clara Quigsnip's. What he would do once he was there was anyone's guess, but perhaps she and Edna could at least give him more provisons if were forced to travel to his uncle's.

Had Quigsnip's former wife set him up purposefully? No, surely not. They could have poisoned him in his sleep or handed him over to Quigsnip's thugs had the wanted him dead.

Oliver walked about the towering brick and wood building, until he located a opening in a boarded up entrance large enough for him to squeeze himself through under the slats. Inside the place was like maze, and full of shadows. But the sun was nearly up by now, and sunlight was beginning to pouring between the slats in the boarded up windows chasing back the shadows.

It was a vast place, and one no one was liable to look, which made it a great hiding place for a young fugitive such as himself. Oliver found a room with a low wood bench and some chairs. He unpacked his cheese, bread and bacon strips, and thesmall flask of water Clara had sent with him. He ate and drank sparingly, not knowing how long he would need to make the food last. Then he curled up to sleep on the floor.

Hours later, Oliver, rested, vacated the building and resumed his journey. It was now broad daylight, but Oliver remained ever watchful for any of Quigsnips's gang members.

At last, on sore, blistering feet, he reached the house of Clara Quigsnip. He glanced right and left and behind to acertain no one had followed him. Oliver waited for several long minutes . But there was no one. Why did they not answer? Oliver felt like shouting _Clara! Edna! It's me, Oliver!_, but he didn't, not wanting to alert anyone.

The the boy felt a hand grip his shoulder. Oliver looked up wildly, eyes full a fear.

It was a man with reddish-brown hair and a mustach, wearing stained cloths and a smudgy apron. "What are you doning here, boy?"

"i-I"

Ms. Clara and Edna Parsnip were arrested this very monring."

"Arrested, sir?"

"That's right, boy."

"Why?"

"How would I know? I'm just here to close down the place. Now, git out of my sight, boy, afore I summon the constable."

He rudely shoved Oliver away, then reached into his pocked and took out a jangling set of keys. Oliver began walking away. He looked back once, seeing man going through each key on the ring, apparently trying to locate which one fit in the lock.

The man suudenly looked back.

Oliver turned round and began walking up the street at a brisk pace.

As Oliver walked away the man peered at him_. A thin, frail boy with a sad face and long blond hair._

"Hey-hey, boy!" the man called. "Boy, come back here!"

Oliver began to run. Behind him, he heard the man's booted feet on the cobblestones. Oliver looked back over his shoulder as he ran. The man was closing in on him with a determined look on his face. The boy doubled his speed. The adult found he was no match for the thin boy, and soon gave up, running back in the direction of Clara's. Oliver knew he'd been recognized. Soon this area would be swarming with constables.

Ever since he had escaped Gamfield, Oliver realized, all of the Quignsip gang would be on the alert for him. And Quigsnip would likely have alerted the police to the fact he was somewhere in London. Everyone would be on the alert for a boy of his size, age, and physical description.

Now he had to get himself away from this district if he could, and into the maze of alleyways where he could more easily lose any pursuers among the crowds of steet ragamuffins.

Oliver turned, dashed down a narrow side street, turned another corner.

And ran full into a uniformed constable.

Oliver started up short, gasping.

The man's face transformed into a sneer, as a recognized Oliver. Worse still, Oliver recognized him. It was Snerkins, one of the two officers who were working for Quigsnip.

The boy twisted around to flee, but the state of shock he was in slowed Oliver's reflexes, and officer Snerkins happened to be faster. He seized Oliver by the arm.

"NO!" cried Oliver, wriggling like fish on a hook. But Snerkins's adult strength held the boy fast.

"_Twist!"_ Snerkins cried triumphantly_. "Little Oliver Twist!"_

"Let me go !" Oliver cried.

"Let you go? Never, boy! Mr. Zebedias Quigsnip has offered your wieght in silver pounds for whoever captures you! And now that honor eblongs to me. You won't be getting away this time, little Oliver Twist!"

Then something caught the boy's eye. Another man was walking rather languidly toward them. He was a tall man with a dark cloack and a stove-pipe hat. But as he drew neare, Olvier could see that he was _unnaturally_ tall. His face was dead white in color, and his eyes, impossibly, were pools of liquid red. And he was grinning vampiricly.

Even in the grip of the constable, Oliver ceased his fruitless thrashing, and stared at the stranger wide-eyed. The boy gasped.

"You won't be given to Gamfield this time, I'm afraid, young Oliver," Snerkins was saying, "Mr. Quignsip is making sure that you're out of his way once and for all. You burned down his antique store didn't you? I wonder how that will sound in court. Do you hear what I'm telling you, boy? You're going to gallows this time! Do you understand that? What are you gaping at?"

Snerkins shrieked as he was siezed and lifted off his feet. His grip on the boy loosened, and Oliver tumbled free. The boy gazed upon the stranger, his eyes wide with fear.

He didn't appear human.

"Who—who?" stammered Snerkins. The man half-twisted his neck around at his captor. The creature's demonic visage glared into nhis. And the constable screamed in terror.

"What shall I do with him, boy?" asked the Grinning Man.

Oliver only stood there, unable to move or to speak, staring blankly at the impossible , distantly, a part of him sensed that this creature wasn't supposed to exist. He-it-didn't belong here, shouldn't be here, yet here it was. It was not at a tall man wearing excellent theatre make-up; it was unquestionably some kind of real-life monster. Oliver knew this with the dead-certainty that children possessed, uninfluenced by adult rationality. It couldn't possibly be real, as the adult world knew it, but Oliver it was real, nonetheless, even here on a London stree in broad daylight.

The Grinning Man stood there—grinning, his mouth seemingly impossibly wide—and seemed to understand that Oliver knew. "This man was going to turn you in to be hung. What should be done with him, hmmmm?"

Even the creature's voice, deep, resonant, was also somehow unnatural. It seemed human, yet that intonation could never have come form a human throat.

What was this creature? A ghost? A vampire?

"What-what are you, sir?" Oliver trembled.

"AH! Ever the little gentlemen, aren't you, you Twist?"

Oliver continued to stare, as though the appartion holding Snerkins was a figment of an opium-induced nightmare.

The Grinning Man, still holding the constable by the collar of his coat, advanced a step toward the boy. Oliver whirled and ran.

Even as he did so, he sensed the apparition closing upon him.

He glanced back as he fled—and nearly screamed. The Grinning Man was coming at him, seeming to fly over the cobble stones. Oliver stumbled and fell forward. He scrambled on his feet and hands for a few feet. Then the boy's eyes flashed to a broken fragment of rusted pipe. Oliver snatched it up and flipped over on his back, facing the terror, holding his improvised weapon in front of him. Though how he could possibly ward off this creature was beyond the boy's comprehension.

The apparition grinned at Oliver—his hideous rictus simle pulling up even further. "So, boy, I see you have gumption in you. Going to use that thing on me, are you?"

Oliver held his weapon in front of him, not know quite what to do with it.

"_Then do it!" _the thing hurtled the unfortunate Snerkins down on Oliver. The man cried out in terror, and the boy screamed. Oliver heard the man's cry dissolve into an inchoherent grugle as the sharpened end of the pipestabbed clear thorugh the mans' chest and into his heart.

Oliver found himself staring full into the constable's reddened face, horrified at what he'd just involuntarily done. He hadn't had time to react, but it was too late now.

"Such a pity, young Twist," said the monster. ""I'm afraid you've just murdered a constable. What a menace you are now. My, my, the price on your has just gone up extensively, boy. My business partner, Mr. Quigsnip, is going to own London when he finally catches you."The appartition whirled and was gone.

Oliver found Snerkins' bulging eyes of pale blue staring into his own. Blood was seeping forth from the man's mouth.

Oliver stared back, eyes filled with horror at what he'd done.

"Boy," said Snerkins, "boy, I'm about to meet my maker. I-I'm sorry…about what I've done…what we've done to you…forgive me boy."

Snerkins choked and wheezed. The final, waning life vacated the mans' eyes.

Oliver, gasping, wrenched himself out form beneath Snerkins' corpse. Oliver scrambeld to his feet. The constable lay in a pool of hisn own blood.

A chorus of angry shouts came forom the north end of the street. Oliver whirled around.

A large crowd was advancing toward him, led by a trio of constables, their stern, hawklike visages trained on him, their billy clubs out.

"_There!"_ shouted the lead constable, "There he is! Get him!"

Oliver swerved about Snerkins' corpse and raced off down the street.

The mob roared and charged.


	25. Chapter 26

26

Oliver ran and ran. They had seen the corpse of officer Snerkins in the street, a tide of red blssoming beneath him.

Now he was not just wanted for an attempt on the life of a pomous young baronet. He was wanted for the life of an officer of the law, not to mention the razing of Quigsnip's antique store. Who knew the web of lies the underworld crime lord had managed to weave about that. Bludger, who had certainly perished in the blaze, would likely be made out to have been an innocent victim who'd been minding the store. Flickart had been right: there was little question but that all of London would gladly see him hang.

Oliver sensed the crowd of maddened adults gaining on him. He swerved around cornoer into another street, nearly colliding with a woman selling flowers as he did so. "Excuse me, Ma'am," Oliver managed to saybefore running on. Other adults in the street stopped to stare at the fleeing lad.

"_Stop that boy!" _Oliver heard the constable shout, as the roared after him. "He murdered an officer!"

In a flash, an adult arm flew out and siezed Oliver by the wrist. The boy cried out in pain. A large man had cuaght him. "I got 'im!" the man cried. "I got 'im 'ere officer!"

Oliver thrashed valiantly, like a fish snared in net, but to no avial. Then, with nothing else to do, the boy kicked the man square in the crouch.

"OOOOOF! The man yelled, doubling over, and releasing his hold on the boy.

Oliver raced on, ducking through the crowd, ans swerving about the vendors. Many of the adults, men and women, sensing the oncoming mob cried out and gotr out of the way. A of them made a grab at him, but Oliver was able to evade them thanks to his small size and quickness. Some of the grownups joined in the mob and had begun to pursue him.

"That's the boy! That's Oliver Twist! Get him!" he heard someone shout.

Even as he ran Oliver's heart wrenched at the voice. All of London, it seemed, had turned against him. He ducked around a vendor , and into an alleyway.

Oliver nearly fell on his knees in despair. The alley ended in a dead wall. He was trapped.

But he wasn't about to just let them drag him to the gallows. He ran down the alley, casting about fro some means of egress.

The roar of the crowd behind him grew louder. There were some doors in the sides of the alley. Oliver tried on of them, but it was locked tight.

Then he felt someone grab him by the arm. Oliver almost cried out before realizing that it was not an adult this time. "This way! C mon!"

Oliver, half in a daze, allowed the other kid, a boy in ragged, patchwork clothes with a cap pulled on over his red hair, to pull him across the alleyway toward another doorway.

This door proved to be open , and they got through it, and the boy slammed it shut, just as the first of the mob charged into the alley.

"Quickly!" the boy told Oliver, "This way!"

Oliver followed him, and the two boys rushed down a gloom-filled hallway, rounded a corner, and clattered up a flight of wood stairs. The stairs angled up and up, in zing zagn fashion. Far below them, Oliver heard the door they had entered through crash in.

They emerged into an upstairs chamber. The redharied boy dashed across it toa windo, Oliver following his lead. The red-haired boy threw up the sash and wriggled out. The two boys emerged on the roof.

"Now!" the redheaded boy said, "Don't them see us!"

"I won't" said Oliver, as both of them kept low as they crept over the tiles of the the first time Oliver wondered if perhaps this unlikely benefacotr was leading him into a trap: maybe the other kid was purposefully leading him into a trap. Maybe the other boy needed whatever reward Mr. Quignsip had promised to ever captured him! Yes, that was definitely a possibility, especially comsidering what such a fortune could do for a street urchin. Still, there was not much else Oliver could do under the circumstances, but to trust this boy.

They scrmbled up the angled roof, and around a protruding window. Then they slid down the other side. The boys found themselves on the edge of a precipice over looking an even narrower alley.

The boy, a thin freckle-faced lad, looked at Oliver, said, somewhat mischeivously, Oliver thought, "Ready to jump?"

"Jump!" Oliver exclaimed.

The boy pointed over the abys s at the other roof top. "We need to get over there. You don't want them to catch you, do you?"

Oliver shook his head.

"Then let's do it, mate!" The boy shakily stood up, tensed himself, and sprung clear across the divide, landing square on the tiles of the slanted surface of the other roodtoop.

Oliver watched in amazement, as the lad scrambld to his feet, and motioned, almost playfully, for Oliver to follow him.

The ravine it self was very narrow, with barely width enough to permit two adults to walk side by siade. Still, it seemed hideously far to the frail boy. But Oliver gathered his strength and lept, clearing the divide with ease.

Scrambling to his feet and across the slats, Oliver followed the redheaded street boy to another window. The boy tried it, but this one proved to be shutted tight. They snuck around the edge of the rasied roof. Olver kept his eye on what he could see of the streets below. He heard the murmuring of the milling crowds below, and the cries of vendors. From somewhere, he heard what sounded like angry shouts, but whether these came from the crowd chasing him, he could not tell. He could see far over this portion of the citty,and had a better view of the domes of London proper in the distance.

The street boy tried another window, and this time it was able to raise it. He scrambled in and Oliver followed. He followed the boy down a twisting and narrow stairwell, and intoa maze of rooms that, like the first bullding, had obviously long been abandoned. Oliver heard rats scrmabling and shreiking in the walls. As they travsered the hallways, Oliver kept expecting some dark, adult form to leap out of the shadows of one of the rooms upon them. But nothing untoward occurred. At last, the boy rbought to a remore room deep within the building's recesses.

Distantly, Oliver heard some angry shouts. He began to speak, but the boy held up his hand to silence him. They listened for more than a minute. There seemed to be a far –off roaring of voices out in the street. The all became quiet, save for the distant murmur of the crowds beyond, and skittering of the buildings rodentine inhabitants.

At last the boy visibly relaxed his shoulders, and a sigh of relief escaped his lips. He turned to Oliver."We should be safe here,"he told him. The boy offered Oliver his hand. "My name's Taggle. Jacob Taggle."

Oliver shook his hand,. ":Thank you,"Oliver said, "But…why did you save me?" .

Jacob removed his cap, and grinned at Oliver. "You're Oliver Twist, raght?"

"Yes," said Oliver. "But I don't think I know you."

Jacob looked about Oliver's own age and size. He had a wirely build, and had dark red hair, tangled, longish, and matted, pale skin, greep eyes, and freckles. If Jacob had been a member of Fagin's gang, Oliver didn't remember him.

"I know you don't know me, mate," the lad said. "But I know you.'I seen you first at that fancy-rich party, 'with all them ladies, lords 'an gentlemen."

"You were there?"

"I was," said jacob. "Ahm dreadful sorry, mate, but I'm the one gave poison to that great lout of a gentleman. 'An you got blamed fer it!"

Oliver's eyes widened. "You…you're the one poisoned Mr. Drummle!"

Jacob nodded. The boy seemed close to tears right then, and Oliver saw clearly that Jacob truly was sorry for what he'd done. "I'm sorry, Oliver, really ah am, but'ee kidnapped me form my family, 'an made me do it!" Jacob sniffed and wiped a tear across his face.

"Who did?"

Jacob was silent, his ehad down, for a couple of seconds. Then he said, " A man. A tall man. I…I don't think he was human, Oliver!"

'Wh-what did he look like?"Oliver stammered. A dreadsome fear was pecking at the back of his mind.

Jacob looked at him, his eyes haunted and full of tears. "White. 'Ee was white all over, Oliver. Like a corpse. He was like some gnetlemen's corpse come back forom the grave or some living ghost." The boy, so dexterous in the streets, was now opening sobbiung at the mere recallection.

Oliver's tongue froze to his palate. He didn't breath another word to Jacob. He knew very well the man Jacob was describing was the same as who had just framed him for the murder of constable Snerkins. There was an uncanny dimension to this entire business. The incident at his uncle's his capture by Quigsnip, his sale to Gamfield, the rest of it. There was something even more horrible lurking behind it all that now had assumed a character so fantasical and unreal that it blurred and dizzied Oliver's reeling mind. There was an evil power here, a power that whithout which, Oliver somehow knew, even the London crime lord with all his connections would never have been capable of accomplishing this.

"How—how did you find me?" Oliver asked, desprately wanting to get poor Jacob off the subject.

"I knew where you'd be," Jacob sniffed.

"Who told you?"

"Fagin told me."

"_Fagin!"_

A sinister creak sounded somewhere in the depths of the abandoned house.

Jacob suddenly froze. The street lad's eyes became narrow and crafty in an instant. He hedl up his hand to shush Oliver.

The sound was fairly far off, but unnervingly nearFrom the character of the sound, Oliver knew it had been no random creak int the floorboards.

Someone was up here with them.

Jacob through himself into a stealthy crouch. He crept to the doorframe, peered out. The hall was empty and silent. Then the boy crpet out into the hall. Oliver followed, but braced himself against the wall peering fearfully into shadows of the adandoned building. Someone was lurking here, someone who likely knew of their presence, and had followed them.

Oliver's heart thudded madly in his chest.

Jacob stole down the corridor, placing his feet so that he made nary a sound. Oliver followed him closely, his back to the wall, staring madly ahead of him.

Ahead of them came a sound—more like the shift of a foot—that indicated to Oliver that whoever it was was on this same floor with them, and his heart elapt to his throat. But something else in the sound's character led him to believe that its author was not an adult.

Jacob peered in two of the rooms, and seemed to satisfy himself both times that no one lurked there. Oliver was less certain as he peered into their shadowed spaces. Jacob silently motioned to, and Oliver crept close behind him, ready to run if who it was made his presence known.

Jacob paused when came to the next doorway. Oliver froze.

He saw that they were near a stone stairwell, and the person could have ascended.

Jacob pivoted himself in front of the doorframe. Oliver peered with in and saw nothing.

Jacob, still crouching low, entered the room.

Oliver followed him warily. The room was threadbare, save for some stacked crates and boxes in a corner. There was boared up window facing east, with scant waning sunlight. pouring through the slats.

It was an L-shaped chamber, and the west end of the L was draped in shadows, with some opening which appeared to be a closet, which looked even darker.

As Oliver stared, he saw it _was_ a closet.

Was that where the sound had issued forth. Oliver didn't know as he stood there, hs palms sweting, his gazed fized on the closet. And then-

That shadows within moved. A dark-cloaked form barreled forth from the closet's maw. Oliver cried out, flung himself sideways.

But the person in the hooded cloak merely was dashing for the exist, appartently seeking to escape. Whoever it was was clearly child-sized, no older than Jacob or Oliver.

But Jacob charged the figure. The kid was fast, but the Jacob was faster. He siezed the cloaked form and thrashed his adversay to the ground.

"_Now_, we'll see who ya are!" cried Jacob Taggle in triumph, throwing back the hood.

Jacob and Oliver both gasped, as the hood revealed a girl's face.

"Who—who are you, girl!" exclaimed the street boy.

"You!" the girl cried, struggled to her feet, as the astonished Jacob glared back at her. "I've seen you! No one else noticed, but I did! You were at Lord Peter's ball! What do you want with Oliver?"

"I-I," Oliver said.

The girl turned her feirce blue eyes on him. "Well?"

"He was helping me," Oliver told her.

She turned back to Jacob. "I'd not be so certain I'd trust him if I were you, Oliver."

Oliver starred at her. She was asmall, thin girl with light brown hair and blue eyes of about his own looked familiar, but Oliver could not quite place her.

Then he knew. "Celia! Celia, it's you! I met you at my uncle's!"

"That's right Oliver."

"What ever are you doing _here?_"

"After Mr. Drummle was posioned, everyone started saying you had done it. My parents weren't sure, but they told me never to associate with you. But I knew it couldn't be true, it just couldn't. Then, when you went missing…they said you were wanted by the police. I snuck out of my father's estate and went looking for you."

"How did you find me?"

"I saw that crowd chasing you, and I followed from a distance. I didn't know where you'd gone to, but I started looking in thise building. I knew there had to be two of you then, when I heard you and this boy going down the stairs."

"You were there, at that fancy-ball?" Jacob asked.

"I was invited," Celia said. "I didn't recognize you when I saw you among the adults there, and there was something about you that gave you away. Can't say what it was, but there was something."

Jacob looked uncomfortable. Oliver didn't blame. If he'd been the one who'd done what Jacob had, he wouldn't wanted to own up to it, either.

"Look," Oliver said."It's nearly dark out. Let's all get some rest. I've got some candles, and some food with me…"

Each of them looked at Oliver with bright expressions at the mention of food.

Oliver imagnined that Jacob got little to eat besides what he could flitch from vendors' carts, and Celia might not have eaten for days.

The last of the daylight faded out, and the London night rolled in, cloaking their hiding place in darkness. Oliver took another of his candles out of his pack and lit it, setting it on the floor. The three of them sat on several of the wood boxes they arranged in a semicircle. Oliver unpacked his remaining slices of bread, cheese and bacon. All three of the children were famished, and devoured the repast savagely. Afterward, Jacob recounted his tale of the tall, goblin-like stranger who had threatened himself and his family. He told of the man who called himself Jack Burton, and claimed to be from the future—or something really strange like that—and how he'd called the stranger "The Grinning Man" he told how the man Burton had befriended him and his Mum and sister. But the Grinning Man had found them any way, and Jacob was captured. He told of how the Grinning Man had bought him a suit of rich clothes, forced him in the small window in the back of Lord Peter's estate. Jacob explained how he'd slyly infiltrated the party, managed to snatch a hair form Oliver's head, and later that night, to place it near Sir Drummle's pillow for his compatriot, Flintwick Screed to find. Then he'd given the man the laudenum, and fled. No one at the party had suspected a child, as children were generally ignored, and Jacob was soon safely out the window the way he'd come and away. He began walking all the way back to London, but the grinning man had confronted him , eyes buringing hellishly, on a lonely country road. He'd bound Jacob and taken him to a place jacob first thought was part of London, then realized was some kind of realm of the dead. Jacob had gotten away. But two ghosts had found him first. They were Mr. Fagin and Mr. Sikes, the leader and co-leader of the infamous Fagin gang. They let Jacob know that his family was unharmed and safely in charge of a wealthy old gentlemen named Brownlow, Oliver's own guardian. Brownlow, Burton, and another strange man named Poe, were going to help the constable solve the crime Jacob had helped instigate. But the two spirits left no doubt that he was hlp undo the damage he'd unwillingly created, by finding Oliver. Jacob was only too eager ot oblige.

When he had finished, Celia said,"Jacob Taggle, I think you are the biggest fibber I _ever-_

"I ain't, miss! I swear I ain't!"

"You horrid little liar! Oh, I do suppose you told the truth about framing my friend Oliver, you course little beast! And then you tell us your rediculous tale 'bout goblins and ghosts! What really happened you little monster? Tell us the truth!"

Jacob looked at her, tears leaking form his eyes. Then the boy buried his face in his plams and wept.

'He is telling the truth, Ceilia!" exclaimed. Oliver.

"You don't really believe him, do you?"

"I've seen this awful man too. The one with the white face and strange eyes. . He—he killed constable Snerkins, one of the police who took mem away!" Oliver was very near tears himself at the moment.

'Well…then why don't we hear your story?"

Oliver told them everything that had befallen him since the night of Lord Peter's ball.

When he had finished, Oliver saw that his companions were visibly shaken, Celia in particular. The girl was looking at him huantedly in the ghostly glow of their candle. "I..believe you, Oliver." She told him quietly. "But that man, the man you and Jacob swear is real! Well, maybe he is, after all. But he can't be some kind of spook! He's got to be some tall person, in make-up or something. My mum and dad take me to the Shakespearean theatre often. You should see what they can do!"

"I'm not so sure," Oliver said. He rememebered too vividly the man's hellishly burning eyes.

Celia looked at Jacob. "Well, maybe I believe you Jacob. But it easily could be Mr. Quignsip put you up to it for money. Maybe to get your father out of prsion? I'm sure you'd be willing to to work for that. So I don't trust you completely, even if Oliver does."

Oliver realized suddenly that he hadn't thought of that. But at least Jacobsincerely seemed to be sorry for what he'd done.

The three kids sat huddled silently for several intermitable seconds, their faces yellow-orange in the dancing light of the single candle. The wind gusted outside through the dark streets of the London night, rattling the loose boards of the ancient building.

At last Jacob broke the silence. "What are we going to do?"

All was silent once more. Then Celia said, "I thinkI know a way."

"What?" Oliver asked.

"What was it that man Bludger told you? He said that Quignsip gave his box to Mr. Drummle."

"How can we get it from him?"

"I know where Mr. Drummle lives. My folks took me to his house once."

"But how can we-?"

"I can get us in, mate!" Jacob announced.

"Just what I was going to say," Celia said. "Jake here can get us in. If he snaukc into your uncle's he shouldn't Drummle's place too much harder. There's proabaly a window in back, just like with mine and your uncle's. Most big hosues have winodws like that."

"How far is it from here?" Oliver asked.

"Far enough," said Celia. "But we can get there by tomorrow evening, if we can disguise ourselves, and no one spots us. During the way."

"Do you think we can?" Oliver asked.

"Oh, I think so," Celia told him. "Just leave the costuming to me."


	26. Chapter 27

27

The children found some ragged, motheaten clothes in a trunk in a corner of the room, and slept on those for the remainder of the night. The next day, they tried on some of the clothes; most of it was made for grown ups, but there were some shirts, pants and coats for boys there, and fews dresses and skirts for girls. Oliver finally settled on some slightly-too-large coats, and Celia put another, far cheaper and tattered dress on over her own.

Then Celia showed Oliver how to blacken his face with a piece of charcoal she had with her. She also, as it turned out, had been able to bring with her some stage- cosmetics from her house. Her father, she explained, had her perform in a few childrens' stage plays, and hoped that she'd one day be on the Shakspearean showed Oliver and Jacob how to use it tio darken their complexions. It was the charchol that had the most suiting effect on Oliver, given his fairness.

Celia stepped back and examined the two boys. "That looks fine. Fine enough, I think. But Oliver—that hair of yours still needs a makeover. " She ground up some of the charcoal with her hands, turning it into a soft gray powder.

"Hold still," she said, applying to Oliver's hair. Celia began applying the gray powder to Oliver's ashen locks. Oliver winced as she kneaded and kneaded, working it in until the boy's entire head of hair was light gray.

"You still think any one will notice me?" Oliver asked. "I'm not sure."

"I don't think you'll draw attention at least," she said. "They're looking for a blond kid, remember. Still…."

She found some old shawls among the cloths, and gave one to each of the boys. "Just pull them over your heads, like I did," she told them.

Celia put her own shawl back on. It had helped her through the strees of the city without anyone guessing she was from an upper class family. Finally, they were ready.

The children ventured out into the streets of London, seeming, as usual with theirvendors, sellers, and ragmuffins. They ventured through the teeming streets. Celia, this time, led the way. As far as food, Oliver still had a very little of his bacon and cheese with him. They were also able to snatch up a few apples and an orange which had fallen into the street from a fruit seller's cart. Also, much to Oliver's chagrin, Jacob managed to filtch another apple from a cart without the seller or anyone else noticing. Oliver was dreadfully certain, for a few seconds, that they were all going to be caught, but he reamined silent, and the crowd merely went on about their business, the fruitseller none the worse for wear. They walked until the were out of London and into the surrounding country. Finally, they stopped to rest under a large oak tree, where they shared some of their pilfered repast with relish. They rested meagerly to conserve their strength, then continued their journey. They walked near the side of the main road, taking cover in the trees or srubbery shoould a carraige approach.

Twilight was settling over the land when at last they reached Drummle's estate. Celia led the boys around the edge of the property so they wouldn't be seen. Then they each wriggled under the iron fence surrounding the baronetcy. Then she made them crawl under a large hedgerow. Crouching there unobtrisively, they had a fine view of the estate. Oliver could see that Drummle's house was not so fine, nor so expensive as his uncle's, but quite large, nonetheless. The porch lights were on, and from how the manor house appeared lighted up, it seemed that the baronet was expecting company this night. They could make out the person of a footman standing just outside the front door.

"How do we get in?" Jacob asked Celia.

"I'm not sure," she whispered, "But there should be a window we can use in the back."

"Wait, look!" whispered Oliver.

There all heard the clatter of shod hooves. As they gazed at the front of the mansion, a large coach with a full and impressive train of four black horse drove up. The carraige clattered to a stop. The door opened and a man got out.

An unnaturally tall man.

Celia cast her gaze at her companions "Jake, Oliver—is that..?

Jake nodded mutely, his eyes trained ahead.

They could not see him distinctly, as they observed him from the side, but the figure appeared to be that of the Grinning Man. He word a great bat-like black claok and a tall hat, and carried a cane. The man strode regally up the marble steps to the house, where the foot man appeard to grat him unnervingly, then passed into the house.

"Hey!" whispered Jacob hoarsely "Notice something queer 'bout that bloke's carraige?"

"I don't—"Celia started but then she did. The tall stranger had been totally alone. There wasn't any coachman riding on the top.

Before she could ponder the question any further, another carraige approached. This one pulled up nearly alongside, but somewhat behind the first. It was pulled by a train of gray-white mares, and this one did have a coachman driving it. The coachman dismounted and opened the carraige. Even from their distant place of hidng, the children saw that the man who emerged form the coach was dwarfish and hunched over. He also carried a cane and wore a stove pipe hat. He ambled mishapenly across the walk, and up the steps to greet the footman.

"It's Quigsnip!" Oliver whispered hoarsely.

As the hunchback continued into the house, another carraige approached and stopped. The man who emerged from this one was thin, with white-grey hair. He wore a dark green jacket and his characteristic white waistcoat. Oliver knew him at once. Flintwick Screed.

"What..what are all of them doing here?" Oliver asked.

"'Avin' some sort of meeting, I'd wager," said Jacob.

Celia said nothing. For several long moments, none of them spoke. No other carraiges came into view.

Then Celia told them, "Come on!"

They crept around the vast hedge, ever watchful that none of the caretakers observe them. Then they wriggled under the hedge on their bellies, and then sprinted toward the back to the house. Celia led them around the side of it. All was nearly dark now, and the vast yard was cloaked in shadow. Oliver glanced behind them once again, to see if he might discern any human shape moving out there, but he saw nothing. At length, they found what they were searching for—a small, unbarred window a little over adult height above the ground. Celia climbed on Jacob's shoulders to reach it. She wriggled herslef in. Oliver went next. Then Jacob made a jump for the window's edge, and pulled himself through.

The others pulled Jacob the rest of the way, and helped him to his feet. They found themsleves inan unlit room that appeared to be a pantry or larder, not unlike the on oliver himself had been forced into by Sikes. Jars of preserves, dried fruits and candies lined the shelves.

The children forze, and listened in the darkened stillness of the room, and the vast hosue beyond.

Then, they snuck stealthily between the rows of shelving to a doorway. They peered out into a hall. They could hear not a sound, so the meeting between the adults must be taking place somewhere far from here, perhaps in one of the upstairs rooms.

"What are we going to do now?" Oliver whispered to Celia.

"I- I don't know."

"You don't know?" asked Jacob. "You said you've been here before. You said you know where Drummle keeps his stuff."

"It's in his private office. The box should be there." Celia said.

'Where is that?" Oliver asked her.

"On the second t floor." Celia said. "We should—shhhh!"

Approaching footsteps sounded up the hall. The children quickly hid themselves. Jacob peered out after the man walked past. He was obviously one of the servants.

Once the footsteps had faded and all was silent once more , the children stole out into the hall and down the corridor. Fortunately for the them, the house was vast, and offered plently of hidng places. They crept through the winding, twisting corridors, taking refuge in some of the rooms if they heard a servant approaching. At last they reached the base of a great gilded staircase which wound up into the upper reaches of the house. Figuring that attempting to ascend the staircase would run too much of a risk, they doubled back. Locating a large wardrobe, the children clambored in, creaking shut the huddled in the back of it in case anyone happened to open it.

For a number of eternally long momets, the children waited there in gloom, their knees drawn up beneth their chins. They heard some other footsteps approaching, then fading, and some voices in distant conversation, followed by brief laughter. Prabably some of the servants socializing. Oliver's heart was booming loudly in his chest, but he forced himself to remain calm.

"You two stay here," Celia whispered. "I'm going to go upstairs and see if I can find that box."

"But what if they catch you?" Jacob asked.

"It would be better if they caught me then either of you. I could at least make up a story if I'm caught. There's nothing that would save you or Oliver."

"But—" Oliver started to say. But he realized Celia knew this house, at least, and if _he_ were caught, it would likely be over for them. He didn't like the idea of Celia going out there on her onw, but if she could manage to find the box, and get it back to them, then maybe they could leave this place and get away. And then he would at last have the evidence against Quigsnip that would set him free.

The two boys watched in silence as Celia crawled to the door of the wardrobe and pushed it upon.

"Wait!" Oliver whispered.

Celia craned her head around.

"Here's the key to the chest—to make sure it's the one." Celia took the key carefully.

She stuck her head out. The way was all clear. She crept out and down into the corridor. When she reached the base of the vast, spireled staircase, there was still no one around. Gingerly, Celia mounted the stairs. If anyone accosted her here, there would be nothwhere to hide, so she kept on going until she reached the top.

She then snuck through the winding corridors, making certain to keep to the shadows to avoid discovery, and to duck into the nearest room if necessary. At last she located Drummle's private office. She looked right, then left, but saw notithing, and then slipped into the room.

It was a spacious chamber, with large bookcases lining the walls. There was a desk with an inkwell and a chair. A large oval table stood in the center of the room surrounded by chairs. A large cabinet that might have held vintage wine stood on the northe side.

Where was the box?

Then she saw it. On the desk sat a smallish chest with brass hinges and clasps. Was that it? It must tiptoed to the box, and inserted the key in the lock.

The lid sprung open.

Inside were a stack of paper documents and letters. Some of the letters she saw, were addressed Mr. Drummle. They each bore a wax seal stamped with the Drummle family crest. She began to riffle trhought them. Yes, these had to be the right papers-

The sound of approaching voices—adult male voices—sounded from somewhere out in the hall, down the corridor.

She realized that she was being foolish. She should have seized her prize and made off with it immediately. Celia snapped the box shut, scrambled to the wine cabinet, and pulled open the doors. There was a space on the bottom squeezed herself into the compartment and jammed the doors shut, just as the adults entered the room.

Their footfalls and conservations sounded unnervingly loud through the doors.

The adults entered the room. Celia opened the door half an inch. She could only see them from foot to waist, but the man who walked around the table in front of her she was certain could only be the tall stranger whom Jacob and Oliver were so fearful of. Another man walked with a curious, hobbling gait, and the girl realized this man must be Quigsnip. The others had to be Flintwick Screed, and the master of the house, Sir Bentley Drummle.

"I have it here, the box with all the docuemts," said Drummle's voice in a boastful manner.

"Very good," said a voice which could only have belonged to the tall strange gantleman. And sure enough, Celia found herself shaken to her core by the mere sound of it. There was some character of that voice that held within it a character that was not quite human. It was deep and resonant and rich, somhow beyond what a mere human voice ought to be capable of. It made Celia think for a moment that the man had to be speaking though an amplifier, though that was clearly not possible, as there was none within the room. "We've all signed, I hope?"

"Yes," said the thin, scrawling voice that belonged to Quignsnip. "We most certainly have. And Mr. Drummle, I do hope you are keeping the box safe for us."

"I most certainly am!"

"I have some doubts that, Mr. Drummle. You know what happened to my business after the police raided it."

""My point, exactly, Mr. Quigsnip. Had you nott entrusted it to me, where would it be now, eh? Either in the hands of constable Flickart, in which case our business would have come to an end, or emolated in the fire."

"I see though," sneered the hunchback, "that you have not taken the care to conceal as I had. If your house were to be burglarized, a thief would find it in plain sight."

"No common theif is ever going to burglarize me, Mr. Quigsnip, sir."

"You may think that, you pompous young fool," said Zebedias curtly, "but you don't know all who kill to get ahold of it, and clear the name of our young friend, Oliver Twist."

Celia nearly gasped at the mention of Oliver.

"But isn't the boy now the most wanted person in London, thanks to us? You told me you'd made certain of that."

"He is still at large however." said Quigsnip. "And the boy has a good number of friends. There are still those in the House of Lords who remain convinced of the boy's innocence! See that the box is well-hidden."

"Very well," agreed Bentley Drummle. But it was obvious that the young man disliked having been spoken to in such a manner.

"I am very certain that the boy Oliver will trouble us little more," said the voice of the Grinning Man, making Celia's innards contract. "I think it's time gentlemen, that I reveal to you all our trump card. The tall, cloaked man produced something from within his cloak.

From her vantage point, Celia could not see it. She pushed the door upon slightly further, possibly a bit more open then was safe. She could see a little more now. What the man held was a small clear stopped vial filled with a scarlet fluid. All the other men were staring raptly at him. Celia now could tell, both from the expressions and the attitude of the other men in the room, that they each held were fearful of this man, even Quigsnip.

"Can any of you venture to guess," said the tall stranger, "what this vial contains?"

None of the men spoke.

"It contains a most virulent plaque. In fact the most hideous pestilence in existence."

Again, none of them spoke a word. At that precise moment, a servant entered the room. Celia could see that he carried a large glass container. Trapped within, and pacing frantically about, was a large white rat.

The man set the container down in the center of the table then left the room.

All of the men remained standing, all gazing collectively at the rat.

"Now, observe,"said the Grinning Man.

From her hiding place, Celia observed the Grinning Man remove the stopper from the vial, then remove the top from the container. The rodent squealed as the Grinning Man seized the rat with one strong, pallid hand. He forced the scarlet contents of the vial down the thrashing rodent's gullet, then released the animal, and replaced the lid. He re-stoppered the vial, and stood back to watch. The other men's gazes remained fixated, morbidly on the rat.

The rodent sniffed ran around twice in his glass prison. It seemed that Drummle was about to speak, when suddenly the rat went rigid began to tremble violently.

It then went into violent convulsions, drawing morbid gasps form some of the observers, including Celia. The rat's white fur began literally to shed off before their astonished eyes. Celia was horrified, but found that she could not tear her gaze away. The rodent's twitching body was now pink and naked. Crimson, blood-oozing sores welled into existence all along the rat's pallid, twitching form. The rodent gave a weak cry, a spasmodic twitch and then lay dead."

Silence reigned throughout the room.

"What—what did you do to it?" asked Screed, finally.

"I told you," the Grinning Man said. "It is a plague. An artificailly produced one, in fact. I call it the Red Death."

"By Jove," said Screed, "wasn't there a plague called that in a story by that American chap—Mr. Poe, by name?"

"Never mind," said the Grinning Man. "This liquid_ is_ the Red Death. I gave the rat the full maximun dosage. How I acquired it is not my privy to tell you. But I have three more such vials of it. It is airborne, and that is why the container must be tightly sealed. But what youhave just observed is merely a small smapling of its power. The Red Death contians the ability to ravage London,and possibly the world. With is at our disposal, we may rule the country. The very power of life and death, my good friends."

Stunned silence reigned for several more moments. Then Screed spoke, in a weak, cracking voice, "But…but I do not want to rule the country, and not out of fear! Heavens, no! I only want respect, and the means to improve my position. And to ruin the life of that wretched Parish brat who took away my 's why I partnered with Mr. Quignsip. But if people fear us, they will hate us as monsters!," "

"Quite so," said the Grinning Man, "But we _are_ all monsters, are we not Mr. Screed? Come, you want to see an innocent young lad swing on the gallows. Does that not make you a monster?"

Mr. Screed looked like he was about to speak, wanted to say soemthing, but could not. He only stared at the Grinning Man with large, fearful eyes.

"But the Red Death is only our trump card, is it not?" said Quignsnip. "We may use it if we all else might fail."

"Indeed it is," said the Grinning Man. "I trust you will use it merely as a final resort. It is most pestilent, and remember, once it is out, there is no guarentee it can be stopped. In fact, I rather believe that it won't. The threat of it is the key to controlling the populace."

"Speaking for myself," said Quigsnip, "I admit my goal is power, and this Red Death will bring me—and all of you—more power than ever. I am certainly impressed Mr. Darvell."

_Mr. Darvell?_ thought Celia That was the tall stanger's name? Uncannily, the name sounded familiar. She thought she had heard her father reading it out of a tale.

"I'll second that, if I may," said Mr. Drummle "anything that will afford me all the wine and easy living I require."

"Very good,gentleman," the Grinning Man said, "I'm most pleased with Mr. Quignsip and Mr. Drummle. And I do believe that our meeting for this evening has come to a close."

The men vacated the room. Quignsip again crabbily remainded Drummle to ensure the box was safeguarded, and Drummle assured him languidly that it would be.

Their footsteps faded to silence. It was still several moments before Celia dared to move or sacrcely to even breathe…


	27. Chapter 28

28

"She's been gone for too long," Jacob Taggle told Oliver.

"What should we do?" Oliver asked.

"I say we go look for her," Jacob told him. Oliver, much as he dreaded venturing out there, agreed.

Jacob gingerly pushed open the closet door. The boys crawled their way out and crept down the corridor.

Some steps sounded in front of them. The boys ducked into a nearby room then fearfully peered out. Four men descended the stairs. The first was obviously the entity they knew as the Grinning Man in his black cloak and hat, then Mr. Quignsip, hunched over and scowling, following with his cane. Behind him came a thin cruel faced man Oliver knew as Mr. Screed, and the young, somewhat overweight master of the house, Bentley Drummle.

The boys were silent as the men passed down the corridor and out of sight. They heard the baronet see the men off and wish them well. They waited a few mintues more.

"Oliver," said Jacob, "That hunchbacked man—that was Quigsnip wasn't it?"

Oliver nodded.

Solitary footsteps approached. Drummle passed through the corridor and ascended the stairs. Once the man's footsteps had faded, Jacob and Oliver crept up the stairs.

As they stole along the corridor, they heard and saw nothing. Where had Celia gone. The boys found an empty room and crawled into it.

"Oliver, you stay here, "Jacob whispered to him, "I'm going to look for Celia."

"Be careful," cautioned Oliver.

"I will," Jacob whispered back.

Jacob stole down the corridor, and as Oliver watched, the boy vanished in the gloom. What now? Was he just supposed to wait here?Then voices came faintly to Oliver's ears. Realizing that perhaps he might gain some information regarding Drummle's involvement, Oliver crept out of the room and down in corridor in the direction of the voices. They were issuing from a large chamber on his right.

Oliver slipped into the room unobserved. It was a very large room, richly voices could clearly be discerned by now. Thye were coming form around a corner. Oliver threw himself to the floor, and crawled out of sight under a table.

Peering out, he could clearly see the room's two occupants.

One was Sir Bentley Drummle standing in front of a hearth. The other was a young woman in a frilled, blue dress seated in a chair in front of was a thin, blonde-haired, and wore a cold, distant expression on her pretty face. Oliver guessed that she must be Mrs. Drummle.

"I tell you, Estella," Drummle was saying. "This is the best thing that could have happened to Flintwick and I. And for us! Mr. Quigsnip will soon be the most celebrated man in London, once that young workhouse lad is back his clutches. And I wager he'll have him very soon. There's nowhere for the boy to hide for long. The boy's wanted for the death of the constable now, and the razing of Mr. Quignsips' store, not to mention the death of the man guarding it for him. Best thing I ever did, setting myself up for that fake laudenum poisoning. "

The young woman looked coldly at him. "And what of Mr. Dervall, Mr. Quignsnip's partner?"

"I'd prefer you didn't speak of _him_," Drummle said uncomfortably.

"I''l speak of who I choose."

Drummle's face hardened. "Don't you see what our partnership means, once the boy is caught? You think we are rich now, but soon will be the most important socialites in London. Think of the parties, the wine!Think of our social standing!"

"Why should I care about those things? I already have everything that I want."

Drummle seemed to be attempting to instill some measure of enthusiasm for his prospects in his young wife, and it wasn't working.

"Don't you see what I'm saying, girl!" Drummle's face was now a mask of rage.

"I don't care what you say!"

"Don't care? Whatever is the matter with you girl! I've bought the the world—what more must I do."

Estella looked away coldly, must to her husband's chagrin.

Oliver swallowed nervously.

"All I've done," said Drummle,"and you've never even slept with me since our wedding night."

Mrs. Drummle turned, cold, contempuous eyes back at her husband. "When, Bentley, did I ever promise to sleep with you?"

Drummle savagely backhanded her. Estella cried out and toppled from her chair.

"You refuse to show me affection? Well, I'll teach you, girl-"

Estella was looking at her husband, eyes fearful yet still cold.

Drummle raised his hand.

"_Stop!"_ cried Oliver. The scrambled out from under the table and stood up, boldly facing the adult. Once, a young woman abused by her partner had died because of him. He was not about to allow that thing to happen again.

Drummle and his wife gazed at the boy in astonishment. Then an oily smile formed on Sir Drummle's lips. "Well, well," he said, "Little Oliver. Little Ollver Twist! Thought you'd break into my house, did you, you little blond guttersnip?"

Drummle, with a swiftness that defied his large size, seized the boy by the wrist. Oliver cried out sharply as Drummle twisted the boy's wrist painfully . The man's grip was like iron. The smell of bad wine fouled his breath.

"I see you've darkened your hair, boy, even if most of it's worn off. Really how would anyone ever recognize you? Haha!"

Oliver squirmed but Drummle held him fast. The boy gazed over at Mrs. Drummle, silently imploring her assistence.

The young woman looked alarmed, but didn't look like she was about to help him.

"You see, Estella," Drummle sneered,not taking fomr his captive, "this boy is the ticket to a better life. Once it's known that I'm the one with the fortune to apprehend this little blond guttersnipe, I'll be in excellent favor with Mr. Quignsip. And all of London will know how I captured this notoious criminal! For that's what you are now, young Oliver, and all of London knows it!"

Something smashed full-force into the back of the baronet's skull. There was shattering of glass, followed by a whoosh of flame, as Oliver fell free, and whirled around.

Estella screamed.

Jacob Taggle had crept up behind the gloating Drummle and bashed him with a keroscene lamp. The glass had shattered and the man's jacket. had caugtht afire. Drummle was screaming and frantically rolling himself against the carpet.

"Come on!" Jacob cried to Oliver. Oliver now saw that Celia was with him—and she had Quignsip's box! He was saved!

The three kids raced out of the room, tore off down the stairs. Oliver heard Bentley roaring after them. Thesent of burning invaded Oliver's nostrils.

"This way!" cried Jacob. The raced through the corridors, and to the front door, startling one of the servants, who got of their way and gaped at them. Jacob was barely able to unlatch the door, before the master of the estate came roaring at them.

They burst out the door and flew down the steps, the cool, fresh night air striking their faces. Oliver glanced back over his shoulder to see Drummle still in pursuit. The man was no longer wearing his jacket; whether he had managed to put out the flmes or not. Drummle was large and overwieght, and even so enraged as the man was, the three children had little difficulty in outdistancing him.

"_Come back, you filthy gutter-rabble!"_ Drummmle raged, as he flung himself after them.

So blind was the man to everything save the trio of fleeing youngsters that he did not even take notice of the thunder of hooves bearing down upon him as hw charged out into the drive.

The baronet gave a stangled cry.

Oliver whirled his blond head around—and gasped in horror.

Their pursuer had fallen directly into the path of a chfvarging gray stallion. Wear the horse had come from, Oliver did not know, but the beast was rearing and eniegh, repeatedly smashing his hooves onto the unfortunate Bently.  
The three kids slowed to a stop, as each of them turned around to gaze morbidly upon the fate of their pursuer. Drummle's cries soon ceased, as the horse smshed him to pulp, then stood beside the corpse of the man. Oliver observed that there were long, dull red strips marring the animal's smooth gray hides, wounds inflicted by a cruel horse shooks his mane and neighed, as though in triumph, then whirled about to gallop off inot the night.

Oliver then noticed the flare of burning in an upstairs room, "I've got to go back!"

"You off yer bleedn' noggin, Twist?" Jacob asked "There ain't nuttin' ya can do for him!"

"Not Drummle!" cried Oliver. "His wife! She's still up there, and the place is on fire!"

"Then she'll have to take care of herself!" Jacob said.

But Oliver was off and running—back toward the house!

"_Oliver!"_ Celia cried.

Jacob was unsure what to do as he helplessly watched the blond boy race up the steps into the mansion.

"We've got to help him !" Celia cried.

"No-no, he's on his own!" said Jacob, though he sounded unsure. He took Celia by the arm, and they raced over the lawn, and were swallowed into the shadows.

Oliver ran up the stairs back back toward the room where he had encountered Drummle and his young wife.

He found the place guttering in orange-white flame. Some of fire had ignited the carpet, and now the entire room was blazing.

Oliver's eyes stung ferociously, and began to stream tears. But through the fire, he saw Mrs. Drummle, laying on her side, trapped. The girl saw Oliver, and cried out, reaching for him. But the flames were too intense for her to cross without setting her dress aflame.

Two household servants came rushing up behind Oliver. They joined him in gazing into the room, but horrified though they were, the servants didn't appear will to risk their lives.

But not Oliver.

The frail boy dashed intothe room, swerved around the flames, then leaped over the wall of fire separating himself from Mrs. Drummle. He seized the curtains, and yanked them down. Oliver through the curtains over the fire's lowest point, then stomped on them, as hard as he could, stifling the fire. His lungs were burning, his eyes steaming tears, the boy focused his concentration and snatched Mrs. Drummle's hand in his own. Clutching it tightly, the boy dragged her to her feet.

"I_I" can't " the young woman gasped.

"Yes you can, I've got you!" gaspedOliver, though the smoke was overwhelming his lungs. _"Now!"_

Clutching the girl's hand, he led her swiftly across and around the worst of the blaze. They had to leap the last few feet to escape the flames. As they plunged tout the door frame, Oliver felt one of the servents catch him. The other caught Mrs. Drummle. Even so, the hem of the girls dress had caught some of the flames; the girl shreikec and fell on her kneees, as the servants stomped it out.

"Come, boy," said one of the servants, as he and his companion led Oliver and the girl swiftly down and steps and out into the cool, clean, night air. Oliver stood there, drawing the wonderfully delicous air into his tortured lungs.

He was blinking away his tears and coughing, as he noticed that a carriage had driven up.

As the boy, the two men, and Mrs. Drummle watched, the carriage clattered to a stop. A young, well-dressed man got out and gaped at the mansion, which now was visibly aflame.

"What's going on here? We saw flames from the road!"

"We don't know yet, sir," one of the servants said. "But young Mrs. Drummle was caught in the blaze. We got her out, but we wouldn't have if not for this here boy."

The man looked at Oliver, and said,"Then you don't know how much I owe you, boy."

"Oh, Pip, Pip—" Estella said, as the young man embraced her. Oliver could see that the girl was weakned by the ordeal, and some of her hair was singed.

Another young gentleman got out of the carraige."What is this?" he asked." By jove, is that Estella? Is she alright? And—bless my soul, is that Bentley Drummle I see lying over there! Is that blighter-?"

"Come on!" said Pip, "we've got to get Estella away from here, at once."

"Pip—" the girl said, in what might have been a half protest.

But the young men ushered her into the carraige. Oliver followed and as he peered up at the carraige window, the boy caught a glimpse of a face within, that of an older man, peering back at him at him with wary, Oliver gazed after the carraige in a daze as it vanished against the dark of the treeline. They had come from the opposite direction the two young men and their older companion. This house was apparently not their goal; they had simply spotted the flames from the road. But now they were retreating back in the direction they had come.

Oliver had little time to ponder this thought before he heard the sound of a second carriage approaching. The boy whirled about.

The new carriage was a constable. It pulled up beside the mansion. Oliver turned to flee, but the four police who had dismounted had already observed him, and made chase.

"_Twist! Young Oliver Twist!"_ one of them shouted feroiciously. _"You'll hang, boy!"_

The thought flitted briefly across the boy's mind that these constables must be of the opinion that he was the one who had set the Drummle estate ablaze.

But Oliver hardly had time to contemplate that either before the elad officer's billy club smashed into his blond head in an explosion of agony, and darkness crashed over him.

experienced eyes. Then the carraige and its passengers were off, clattering away in the direction of London.


	28. Chapter 29

29

Jacob and Celia crouched there, as they stared at the constables as they bashed Oliver over the head and drug him off.

They opened the back of the police carraige and tossed the unconscious Oliver within.

More constables, and a firebrigade arrived. Two of the constables were inspecting the corpse of Bentley Drummle.

"We've got to leave," Jacob said.

Celia nodded.

They crawled backward out of the hedge, and made off.

The two children ran, keeping within the shadows of the treeline, until they were well away form the Drummle baronetcy. They sought shelter within a copse of trees off the main road, and collapsed there. They lay for nearly twenty minutes, breathing hard, neither one of them speaking. At last, Jacob said to her,"So….I guess you got the box?"

"I did. It's got all the papers—or at least enough to prove those men are all in league with each other against Oliver. I heard them talking about it myself."

"What happened?"

"I found Mr. Drummle's office, and the box was there. But I heard them coming, so I hid in the wine cabinet."

"So…Oliver should be okay then. We got the papers. And you heard them! Once you tell your mum and dad, everything should be fine. I'm sure the police'll believe _them_." But he sounded as though he was forcing himself to sound more hopeful than he really was.

"I'm…not sure," Celia said. "From what I heard, it sounds like Oliver's really wanted now. They have people beleiving he really killed that constable, and that he set Quignsip's store on fire…'

"Well….we've got to do all we can to help him, right?"

"Of course,"said Celia. "I'm…just not sure how much we can do. We're only children, Jacob! Adults don't listen to us! I'm not as sure as you my mum and dad will believe of them was silent for a few long seconds.

"Do..do you still have that apple of yours left in your pocket, Jacob?" Celia asked him.

"Yeah.." he fetched it out, and they both shared bites of it. Then they found a large tree overlooking a shallow gully. One of the large, gnarled roots overhung a depression. In this natural shelf the two children crawled in and curled up. They slept the remaining night hours there, and rose, somewhat refreshed, just as dawn was painting the sky rosey over the horizon.

Celia and Jacob began walking in the direction of her parents' estate, making sure to stay away form the main roads. Jacob wondered what her parents would think of him, and how they would react to her being gone all this time.

"Don't worry," Celia assurred him. "Once I explain everything, my parents will understand." But in truth, she worried dreafully about her father's reaction to her sneaking out to help Oliver, of all people, and then showing up days later with a street boy. And how would she explain everything that had happened?

As evening gathered, they sought shelter within a large abandoned barn. Celia told Jacob that they should reach her father's estate by noon the next day. Both children were vey tired, and they made their bed in the hay. Soon they were snug and slumbering deeply.

It was broad daylight by the time that the knocking roused them. Both children sat up, starring at the barn door. Seconds of silenced elapsed, until they both became nearly convinced they'd imagined it, or that what they'd heard was merely a remaining figment of a shared dream.

Then—

There sounded three loud pounds on the door of their hiding place, unmistakably made by a constable's billy club. These were followed by a loud voice. "Anyone in there? I was quite cetain that I ehard someone! Just now I did. Best give yourselves up."

Jacob realized the officer must have heard the rustle of the hay as they sat up.

"They've found us!" whispered Celia. "Somehow, they've found us out, Jacob!"

"What'll we do?" Jacob asked her.

Celia looked at him blankly. "You mean, you don't know?"

"Maybe….maybe we can get up into the loft!" he said. The children scrambled madly to their feet, ran for the ladder leading up into the loft.

"Ah….I hear you now! Not giving yourselves up , eh?"

The children clambered up the ladder, vanishing into the loft above, just as the barn door crashed inward. They wriggled for the back of the loft until they reached the wall. It was bare, save for hay, and there was not enough of thatfor them to hide themselves, not that it would likely do them any good. They sat facing the edge of the loft and waited, trembling.

At first all was quiet, as the constable below surveyed the barn, looking anywhere the children might have hidden themselves. Then his gaze was drawn to the a moment he starred at the ladder, then strode purposefully toward it in a businesslike manner. The children could only stare blankly in cold silence as they heard the inevitable tread of the constable's boots ascending each wooden rung. The helmeted, mustached face of the man appeared over the edge.

"AH!" he said, "Two children. I thought you were youngsters, and I was right. I'll wager you're the very children I'm after. He climbed the rest of the rungs, and strode importantly toward them.

Celia and Jacob could merely gaze up, trembling, as the man towered over them, hands on hips."I say!" he said "What are two youn 'uns doing out here? Have you run away form home?"

"How—how?" said Celia

"What?" the man asked.

"You said you were looking for us."

"Some people saw you from the road," he answered.

The children seemed to relax a little.

"_And_," the constable continued, and here he leaned toward them just slightly, fixing them with a wry look," some of the servants at the estate of the late Sir Bentley Drummle swear that two youngsters of _your _exact descriptions were seen fleeing his house. Care to explain yourselves?"

For moments, the confused children trembled, staring mutely up at their discoverer in shock. Then they both began to sob.

"Now, _now,"_ said the constable. "I'm not saying that either of you are in any sort of trouble here.'

"You—you're not?"

"Not at all," said the policeman, "So long as you're willing to divulge the entire truth about these matters?"

Jacob was momentarily given hope. This constable seemed genuinely friendly, perhaps even kind. But then he reminded himself that constables were often that way—especially if they wanted you to give up your secrets. His impulse was to quickly fabricate a story, as he doubtless could have done. But he remembered—they now had the box!

"I-I'll tell you," Jacob stammered. "We'll both tell you everything."

"We will?" asked Celia, eyes wide.

"Yes! The box, remember?"

"Oh, yes," she said. "The box."

The constable raised his right eyebrow at them. "Not the box that was pilfered form Sir Drummle's library a fortnight ago, is it?"  
"Yes!" she cried, a frantic note now in her voice. "Yes, it is! But if you look at the papers in it, sir, I think you'll find that Mr. Drummle has been up to no good!"

"Yeah!" Jacob blurted "Ee's a real bad'un that Drummle is, and ee's conspired with some other bad'uns, ee has, just look!"

"Oh,has he now. That's most interesting. And where is the box now?"

"Down below!" cried Celia "We hid it in the hay while we were sleeping."

"Really? Well, let's all just take a look, why don't we."

The constable followed the two youngsters down out of the loft. Celia dug the box out of the hay, and handed it to the man. "Here is the key," she said.

"Hmm. And how did you manage to come by _it?"_

"It..it's a long story," Celia told him.

"Bloody long," said Jacob.

"Is it now? Well, I'll look foreward to hearing it—as soon as we find out what's in here." The constable set the box on the floor, inserted the key. The lid snapped open. The children sat silently,on their heels, staring and trembling slightly at him, as the officer lifted the documents out, and carefully went through them, examining each one.

At last he replaced them and closed the lid. He stood up and placed his hands on his hips. Jacob and Celia, not drawing their gaze away, got to their feet.

The constable sighed. "Young lady, I don't know quite what to make of those papers. But it appears that you are right. In part at least. I can tell that Drummle has been immersed in some neferous dealings. And some of them involve Mr. Zebedias Quigsnip, a well known landlord and antique dealer…"

"Yes!" cried Jacob "It's _his_ box! Oliver told us.." suddenly his voice trailed off, realizing he might have just inadvertantly peached on his friend.

The man's face darkened."_Oliver? _Oliver who?"

"N-nobody! He's just a bloke that told us—"

"Is he a friend of yours?"

Jacob snapped shut his mouth. He stared helplessly. He had no idea how to answer.

"You wouldn't happen to be speaking of _Oliver Twist _now, would you, the boy once hailed as a hero, and now wanted as a motorious theif and murderer?"

"He's not a theif!" cried Celia "And he's certainly no murderer!"  
"Ah, so it _is_ him! Exactly as I suspected it was! And how would you know,young lady?"

Celia, mortified fell on her knees and sobbed and sobbed. Jacob grasped her shoulders and tried vainly to comfort her.

"Come now," said the officer gently, "I said you were in no trouble. Oliver may be, yes, but not you!"

"But…but," cried Celia, through her tears, "I-I thought those papers would prove Oliver innocent!"

The constable was silent for a moment. From the look on his face, it seemed that he genuinely wanted to help, but could not. Not at the moment, at any rate."Just tell me everything," he said.

Once Celia had calmed down enough, she told him an abbreviated account of what had befellen them, with Jacob filling in the parts she didn't know."

When the children had finished their tale, the constable stood regarding them, his face appearing deep in thought. Finally he said, "It's all rather difficult to believe. But the tall, mysterious gentleman…yes, there've been reports of a man very like that for just over a month now. And the part about Oliver rescuing Mrs. Drummle from the fire? Hmmm….actually I wouldn't be surprised if the boy might not have done exactly that. Not in the least surprised, in fact."

"Then..then you believe us?" Celia asked him.

"Maybe…then again, maybe not. It's really for my superior to decide, not me."

"Who?"

"The Chief Inspector, of course. I'm going to need to take you to must show him those papers. In fact, I'm very certain indeed that he'll be most interested in what those papers have to say regarding Mr. Quigsnip. He happens to have been onto the man for some time, now. Children, you may have provided just exactly what he needs."

Jacob and Celia were delighted to hear this. If they could really save their friend,and if the constable really could be trusted, neither of them was certain. But they had little choice. They rode the remainder of the way to London with him. But instead of taking the road to the city proper, the constable made his coachman turn into a lavishly rich nieghborhood just outside town. The carraige pulled to a stopped next a large, nearly baronial looking manision. There was another police carraige parked nearby

"Why..why are we here?" Celia asked.

The constable leaned toward them. "Listen. This is home of Mr. George Brownlow, guardian to your young friend, Oliver. I was to meet with the Chief Inspector here today. Trust me, he'll know what to make of those papers."

Celia had a distinct impression that the man did not intend to accompany them. "But….aren't you coming with us?"

"I fear I can't," he said, with just a touch of saddness in his voice. "You've got the best evidence there is against the man Quigsnip. From here, it's all up to you."

"But—"

The consatble held up his hand."Just go!" he told them severely, "Take the box, hold onto it, and show it to them!"

The children scrabbled out of the carraige. Constable James Vittles watched, as they dashed across the lawn toward the waiting mansion. He signeled to the driver, and they was off and away. Before the carraige had traveled much furhter, Vittles found himself , to his own astonishment, having a hearty laugh. The prankish schoolboy of so long ago had burbled to the surface. James had planned it all out what to do now. Before long, he'd be well on his way to America.

Vittles laughed and laughed at the expense of Mr. Quignsnip and all of his associates. In delivering those papers, some of which incriminated himself, he'd just pulled the final prank on them all.


	29. Chapter 30

30

"Confound it all!" exclaimed constable Flckart. "The man Quigsnip seems to have erased all evidence that could incriminate him!"

Thomas Flickart had recently arrived at the Brownlow estate. He was, at the moment, pacing furiously. He made a search of Quigsnip's antitique shop, the house near Chertsey bridge, several other of his houses. Thus far, they had found nothing linking him with criminal activity, let alone Oliver Twist's alleged poisoning of Bentley Drummle,and the boy's subsquent disapearance."

"But there's nothing you've found that can proclaim our Oliver innocent of that crime?"

"I'm afraid that I have not,"Flickart said. The man ceased pacing, looked deeply troubled, then sank down into a chair.

Mr. Browlow and Rose, as well as Mr. Copperfield and Agnes, and Mr. Burton and Mr. Poe, were in the drawing room with him. All had been axiously awaiting the news the constable would bring with him. All of their eyes were on him.

"Well?" asked Rose again. "Do you, in fact, have any news of Oliver?"

"I'm…afraid that I do," Flickart old them. "It seems that the boy attempted to burglarize Drummle's estate last night…"

"Oh, no!" Rose cried.

"I should hope I'm not hearing you right," Brownlow said.

"I'm afraid you are, and that matters are even worse for our young friend," said the constable, "The boy apparently had two accomplises during the break-in, a boy and a girl, street children, from the reports. Servants claimed that somehow they started a fire in an upstairs drawing room, and that somehow the master of the estate ended up being killed by a horse while attempting to pursue the three youngsters as they fled. "

"You…you mean Drummle is dead?" Rose asked.

Tom Flickart nodded. "They're not sure exactly what led to the man's demise. It seems he he was stomped to death by a nag that he had habitually ill-treated. But Oliver is being blamed. And the evidence seems to suggest that if were not on the premises, it would not have occurred."

"I'm not so sure about that," Jack Burton said.

Flickart raised an eyebrow at the young man. "Really? Why?"

"Well…as you said, Drummle had mistreated that nag. It would likely have occurred sometime, sooner or later."

"Perhaps. At any rate, two of the servants have reported that Drummle's young wife, whom he married quite recently, would never have escaped the blaze had it not been for Oliver. It seems young Twist dashed back into the buring mansion to save her."

"Oliver did that?" said Rose. "and they still believe the charges against him?"

"I don't think anyone is taking the servants seriously," Flickart told her. "After all, they're only servents."

"Where is Oliver now?" Rose inquired frantically.

"The boy is in custody as we speak. The other two youngsters managed to escape. Oliver was captured, most likely because he remained behind to save Mrs. Drummle, but there you are. The boy has …already been brought before magistrate Fang. The sntence has been pased for his multipe crimes. Oliver Twist is to be hung by the neck until dead."

The words were spoken with harsh abruptness. Flickart reasoned that it would be better to voice the terrible reality of the case directly. But Rose had gone very white, her eyes staring. Then the girl passed into a swoon.

"My lady, I'm sorry—" Flickart started.

Burton and Poe had already dashed to her side in an effot to revive her.

Brownlow had gottn imperiously to his feet. "Mr. Flaickart," he said to Tom Flickart, who was also standing. "You don't really believe any of what is being said about Oliver, do you? He cannot of attempted to burglarize Drummle's esate unless he was forced! And he never murdered a constable, much less razed Quigsnip's business!"

"I believe that the boy is being set up, yes. In fact, I believe it now more than ever, with this rapid succession of these ill-fated events."

"And you can do nothing!"

There came at that moment a sudden rapping at the door.

Everyone in the room suddenly fell quiet. Flickart strode forward and answered it. On the porch, much to his surprise, stood two children, and boy and girl.

The boy appeared of about Oliver's age, thin, dressed in patchwork clothes with scraggly red hair. The girl had light brown hair, and was dressed in a shawl with a hood. Her clothes appeared worn, but they were also of costly silk and linen; he saw nealry at once that this was no street girl. And he also was reminded almost immediately of the two children reported to have accompanied Oliver dring the alleged burglary at Drummle's. And the girl was bearing a box, made of wood with brass clasps.

"What have we here?" Flickart asked.

The two children appeared at first rather frightened, perhaps upon seeing a constable. "Please," the girl said, as she held out the box, "Look inside. Jacob has the key, don't you Jacob?"  
Jacob fished inside his coat, and drew forth the elaborate brass key.

Flickart took at step back, and examined the children further. His eyes grew wide. "By Jove," he said, "Miss, are you young miss Celia Jacobin?"

"I am, sir."

"Your father has his hired men combing the countryside looking for you! Not that we, as constables aren't looking as well, but we have many other concerns at this present time."

"You mean, like Oliver Twist, and proving his innocence?" Celia asked him.

"Why…why yes.."

She thrust the box at him. "Here! Open the box, please! I think it has what you're looking for…."

Flickart took the box. Jacob handed him the key.

"You," Flickart said, "Are you Jacob Taggle, by any chance. From your description, I'd wager you are."

"I am, sir," said Jacob. "I'd just like to know if my mum and sister are safe!"  
"Well, my young fellow," Flickart said, "Step right inside. You have a surprise waiting for you."

The children entered. The company of adults starred blankly at them. The kids looked them over in rapt wonder. There were anumber of aristocratic-seeming people here. Jacob recognized at once the young gentleman who called himself Jack Burton, though he had no idea who the gloomy-looking gent was in the chair next to him.

"Jacob!" Jack said, "You momand sister have been so worried about you! As have I—"

"_Jacob!"_ cried a shrill voice. Mrs. Margery Taggle had burst inton the room. Jacob ran and flung himself into his mother's arms. They clung to each other for a long time, sobbing in joy. Little Millie Taggle peered around the corner. Her eyes widened."Jacob! Jacob, you're back!"

Once Jacob's mother, tears still runneling down her face, as she stared fondly at him, released Jacob, The boy got on his knees, as Millie lfung herslf into his arms with a squeal of delight.

He rocked in his arms. "Yea….I'm back, Millie. Ah coulda told ya I'd be fine."

Flickart and the others were watching them. Jacob's family was at last reunited—save of course, for his father, presumably still in debtor's prison.

The policeman felt a sharp tug on his arm. "Go on," cried Celia, "open it!"

"Okay, okay! I will." Flcikart said. He placed the box carefully on the table. The othes all took notice of what was about to be revealed. They stared at the constable and box, and began to gather around him. Flickart inserted the key, gave it a twist. The lid sprang open.

Inside lay the papers.

Fliackart lifred them out. "It will take some time to have a look at these." He said.

"Oh, please…" said Celia.

"Now, do be calm my dear," said Tom Flickart has he took up an envelope ebaring a wax seal. "Hmmmm…the Drummle family crest. So,how came you by this, young lady? Did you and your friends happen to pillege this from Drummle's family estate, before it was damaged in the fire?"

"I beg you sir, my friend Oliver's life is at stake!"  
"Yes, I know that." Said the constable, as he tore open the letter, and unfolded a sheet of expensive cream colored paper. The penmanship was written in aristocratic caligraphy. After carefully reading the letter, the constable said, "By Jove!" he peered over his shoudler to peepr down at Celia. "I believe that this letter alone is enogh to save young Oliver's life! It clearly indicates that Drummle was in league with Quigsnip, that they intended to frame Oliver, that the laudenum poisoning was fake, and that the murder of constable Snerkins was set up! It doesn't go into how, but…confound it all, we've no time to lose! We've got to reach the magistrate before down tomorrow!"


	30. Chapter 31

31

"In here, boy!" the constable roared, as he callously shoved Oliver into the cell.

The boy stumbled, cried out weakly. The man laughed hoarsely and clanged the bars shut.

The echo of the constable's booted heels strking the stone floor gradually faded as Oliver sat there on the cold floor in the moldy straw, weeping his head in his arms.

Oliver wept and wept. Jacob and Celia had done all they could to save him, but they had failed. One of the constables had told him that they had caught his young friends too. And since no one had stood up for him in court, that had to have meant that the police were working for Quignsip, and had confiscated the box.

Mr. Fang, as remoreseless a magistrate as ever, had sentenced him to be hung by the neck until dead. His "trial"—if it could really be called that-had been a short one. It was very clear to him that nearly everyone present were convinced of his guilt. There were angry shouts crying for his immediate execution. There were hoarse cheers and sadistic catcalls when Fang had pronounced his sentence.

None pitied him. No one cared enough to even listen to him.

They were set to hang him on the morrow. Now, with all hope obliberated, Oliver found himself actually looking forward, not to his acrtual execution, but to what lay beyond. Very soon, he thought, his life on this earth would end. He would see his mother finally. After the horrid jerk of the rope, the hateful roars of the crowd would fade away. And he and his long lost mother would he reunited at last. He imagined what it would soon be like, to be safe and warm in her arms at long last. And the boy allowed himsefl to smile faintly.

Comforted by his thoughts of welcoming Paradise, the boy fell soundly asleep in the filthy hay, and remained deep in slumber throughout the long dark hours before dawn. When morning at last broke, the harsh voice of the guard roused him.

"Rise 'an shine,lad!" the man said, rattling the keys in the lock."Time to greet your maker, young Twist! I'd pray good 'an 'ard, boy, that the Lord forgives ya fer all the evil things you've done!"

Oliver made no protest as to his innocence; he knew that it was useless. The guard marched him down the hall to the gate, where two uniformed constables were wating.

"AH! Your last day alive, young Twist!" one of them said, as they led him to their carriage. They shoved the boy roughly inside, then climbled in.

They drove to the place of execution. Upon arriving, Oliver could tell by the roar of the masses outside that an enormous crowd of Londoners had turned out to enjoy his death. The door opened, and the constable seized Oliver by his frail arms and yanked the boy rudely out. Jeers rose up from the crowd at the sight of the boy. The two police gripped Oliver's arms with such vice-like tightness that it cut off the circulation, Oliver, befret of any hope, made not even a feeble effort to resist. But the cries of _Murderer! _and coarse, abusive language hurtled at him stung his ears, burned his eyes, and made tears run down his no one believed the truth overwhelmed Oliver and dizzied the boy with the capacity of its horror. But he resisted not as they rudely pulled and shoved him up the steps and to the scaffolding.

The noose was drawn about his neck. Oliver gazed out over the assemblege. The faces composing his audience blurred with one another in the boy's vision, which swam and tilted maddeningly. Oliver had thought himself prepared for his final few seconds on this earth, but he was wrong. His eyes blurred even further as an ocean of tears welled up uncontrolably and came gushing forth down his cheeks.

Though Oliver could not have noticed, not all of the crowd were against him. There were some in attendance who had come to express outrage at this, but who had been cowed into submission by the aggressness of those demanding Oliver's death. But now, even some of these latter ones were silenced by the sight of the frail, starved, angelic-looking lad beneath the gallows, his neck circled by a hangman's noose, weeping uncontollably.

A strange silence sttled over the crowd. Could this all be a trick, some mad scheme by devils? Had they all somehow been conned into condemning this poor, innocent young boy? This was _Oliver Twist_ on the scaffold-the young boy who had dared challenge the system by daring to ask for more gruel! He had already gone through more suffering then any of them had.

And they had come out to see him hang?

Why? Had the world suddenly gone mad?

Others among the crowd initially responded with mocking laughter and coarse jests when they witnessed Oliver's tears. But a silence fell among these too, as they looked about uneasily, fearing that their jeers would now be greeted by harsh disapproval.

A good portion of the crowd were gazing in pity. Surely, even if the boy were guilty, none should mock and jeer at him in these final moments. Among others, there was now uneasy murmuring, in the growing suspicion that they had been victims of some diabolical hoax.

"_Let the boy go!"_someone cried.

But the courtyard was surrounded by constables, and they had come for the very reason to keep order in case things get out of hand.

"Don't be taken in by this brat's tears!" commanded a voice. "He's been the cause of enough pain and suffering! Would you have him burn down _your_ businesses, too?"

And Oliver, on the scaffold, knew that he recognized it. It was voice of a very old enemy, an enemy form his workhouse past. Oliver furiously blinked away his tears, and he saw, on a podium below the scaffold, standing there facing him, a thin, well-dressed man in a white waistcoat, with a cruel, hawklike face. Oliver knew him well. It was Flintwick Screed.

The crowd had now quieted, seeming to sense that this business, hoax or otherwise, had progressed so far that there was little chance of them their finding a way back out. Screed was now facing the boy on the scaffold, a cruel smile on his thin lips. "So, young master Twist. We meet again."

The boy said nothing, though he whined in misery, though his eyes stung, threatening to flood with tears once more.

"You don't know how much this means to me, to be here today to see you hang. I've waited for this moment ever since your moment of rebellian in the workhouse. I've anticipated it ever since I first laid eyes upon you. I perdicted you were fated to be nothing but a dire criminal, fit only for the gallows. And here you are at last! They took away my position, once it was made known you were a young gentleman. But it seems that the seed of your illegitimatcy has now made itself abundantly known! Guess who was right about you all along, young Twist?"

Oliver, blinded with tears, only gave voice to a choking sob.

'Ha aha! Despair, boy! And don't even think that your stupid tears will elicit any pity from us now! Everyone knows what a black-hearted little villain you truly are! My good friend Bentley Drummle is now dead because of you! Not to mention constable Snerkins and many others. But now you are about to swing for your crimes, Oliver Twist. Justice is about to be served at long last, and I am prepared to richly enjoy the spectacle."

"And I second that!"  
Oliver knew the voice and face very well, and even where he was, poised on the very brink of the black abyss, the boy's blood ran shivery-cold and his eyes widened in horror. For the man was the hunchback, Zebedias Quigsnip himself.

"I will richly enjoy watching you die, young Oliver!" the humpbacked man snarled. "I gather, young Twist, that you now know the reason! Remember my daughter, in your final moments, boy! Think of my Nancy, and what your angelic features did to her! Think of her lying in a spreading pool of congealing gore, Oliver! Know that she died because of you, and that you are finally paying the price for her death!"

"_Kill him! Kill him now!"_

"_Make the young blighter swing!"_

The shouts from the crowd were savage in their hate. Spurred on by the humpbacked man's words, those against Oliver were emboldend once more.

"_He's innocent!"_ cried someone else. There were whistle-blow and cries of "Order!" from the constables.

Oliver's tears did spill over now, flooding his eyes and blinding him once more. The thought of Nancy burned through his brain. He was here because of her, he realized. Perhaps, after all, he _was_ a murderer. Quuigsnip was right—Nancy _was_ dead on his account. He deserved all of their jeers and hatred. Why shouldn't he swing?

And perhaps heaven wasn't his eternal destination after all.

Quignsip stepped back as a signal was given to the executioner. Oliver's vision was blotted out as a dark hood was pulled rudely on over his blond head. The door beneath Oliver's feet was about to be released.

There were murmurs in the crowd, some of protest and indignation. But slowly the crowd became silent as they await the fatal pull of the lever.

"_Stop!" _someone cried.

"Who dares—"exclaimed Quigsnip.

"It's the boy's weight. sSaid one of the guards, who was presiding over Oliver's execution. "The boy is so lightwieght, that we may have trouble. The drop might not kill him instantly.'

"Who cares, so long as he dies?" answered the hunchback. "This brat deserves to suffer!"

"We don't want a sloppy execution," the man said, "The people do not need to see a young boy needlessly strangle to death. "

"So what?" rasped Quigsnip"The boy's face is covered. No one need see the angelic face of the pretty little Parish brat while he strangles." But he knew that too many people were still sympathic to the boy.

"No—covering his face simply won't do. We need some added weight."

"Then be quick about it!" said Quigsnip. "I am beginning to grow impatient."

They waited while heaving lead weights were lashed to Oliver's thin legs. "Now—_now_ he should swing properly!"

"Good!" said Quigsnip. "Get on with it! It's time this brat was held accountable for his monstrous acts!"

The executioner made ready to pull back the lever, releasing the door, sending Oliver swinging into the afterworld.

"_Wait! Don't kill this boy!"_

A surpised murmur rose from the crowd, as all heads turned in the direction of who had spoken. It was a young man, standing on another podium at the east end of the plaza. He was thin and rather tall, dressed as a gentleman, with blond, slighlty curled hair. With him was another young gentleman, this one with dark hair, and a young blonde woman, some of whom in the crowd recognized as Mrs. Drummle.

"And who might you be, sir?" asked Flintwick Screed.

"Herbert Pocket is my name, sir."

"And who are you to disrupt this execution?" said Quigsnip. "be quiet, you, and let justice proceed!"

"No!" answered a stern voice. They looked and saw that it was the voice of a constable. Screed and Quignsip recognized him: Thomas Flickart, the chief inspector And they saw, fearfully, that Flcikart had arrived with a crowd of several others. One of them was ayoung-looking man who carried what appeared to be a pistol of some fashion; only it was of shiney, aluminnum –looking material. "Let the man speak! If the boy is innocent, let us here of it!"

"I want you all to know," Herbert Pocket was saying, "That the boy you are all about to see hung risked his own life and lib to save the life of young Miss Estella Drummle, who can testify it herself!"

"Is that true?" another constable demanded.

"Yes!" Miss Estella cried "Yes, it is! You have no right to murder that boy! Let him go!"

There was a great murmuring in the crowd this time, and the tide seemed now to be turning against Quigsnip and those still eager to see the Parish lad swing.

"Don't be fools!" Screed shouted. "Even if the boy did save her, how on earth does that mitigate his other crimes?"

"You cannot execute him!" Herbert Pocket said, "Why would a lad who risked his life to save someone he did not know possibly be guilty of the crimes you say he has committed?"

"_It matters not!"_ "It Quignsip roared savagely . "The sentence has already passed, young sir, and the boy is to be hung!" He turned his hatful gaze to the executioner. "What are you wating for! Pull that lever! _OLIVER TWIST MUST DIE!"_

The man on the scaffold, however, suddenly appeared confused, as though no longer certain as to whether or not to carry through the execution.

"You!" shouted the hunchback at the man in charge of executions "What is the matter with you, man! Why do you not throw the lever?"  
The man still appeared reluctant, and began backing away.

Senseing an alteration in the attitude of the onlookers, Quignsip, with a swiftness that was hideous considering the man's awful deformity, clambered up the stair to the crowd gasped, some in dismay, others in plain shock, as Quignsip seized the lever, threw it furiously back.

The trapped door was released.

Oliver felt, for a fraction of a second, the pressure of the rope tighten sickeningly around his trachea, as he was sent hurtling into space, blacking him out.

_Then—_

A gasp rose from the audience.

For the rope dangled uselessly in midair, it's intended victim—vanished!

Had God Himself then, intervened on the behalf of the virtuous young Parish boy? Were all of them, now set to receive _His_ wrath?

None noticed, of course, the young man standing next to the chief inspector, a slight grinn on his face, and holding a strange metal device.

"_THIS BOY IS INNOCENT!"_ roared constable Flickart to the crowd. "AND HERE I HAVE PROOF!" He waved about a cream-colored sheet of paper bearing caligraphic script. "_Lest any among you doubt the veracity of my claim, allow me to read what is written here, inscribed by Zebedias Quigsnip himself!"_

But the crowd did not wait to hear Flickart's words. The massed Londoners were already divided into those wanting Oliver to hang- whether merely because of the sadistic thrill of witnessing a young boy hung or sincere conviction, but mostly because of loyalty to Mr. Quignsip- and those who supported young Oliver. Angry jeers rose up on all sides, as the simmering violence, kept just meager in check until this precise moment, erupted. The masses stormed into one another, smashing one another with their fists, and bricks, cudgels, and whatever else there was. The police force was galivinized into action, but even here, a good number were by this time unquestioningly loyal to Quignsip, and before the police could club the rioters into submission, their fellows laid into them with their billy-clubs. The entire courtyard erupted in a mad frenzy, Quignsip's private army, battling with Flickart's loyalists.

Herbert Pocket and his friends, sensing what was coming, had exited the scene.

It was nearly an hour later that Flickart and his loyal constables were able to maintian control once more. Over a dozen of Quigsnip's own loyalists were subdued and arrested.

The chief inspector relected upon the day's accomplishments—and his on loss.

Someone had apparently managed to save Oliver, for the noose was now mysteriously empty. They had also managed to arrest Flintwick Screed, which would allow them to futher clear the boy's name. But where was the boy now?

And somehow, in the chaos of the battle, Zebedias Quigsnip had also vanished.


	31. Chapter 32

32

"Where's my Oliver?" demanded Rose. "I don't know who you really are, or where you're from, but somehow, I know that you know!"

"Calm down, young lady…" Jack Burton assurred her.

"I won't be calm! Not until you tell me!"

They were still in the courtyard where Oliver Twist was to experience his final moments. The crowd of people sympathetic to the boy's plight had gathered around them. All of them were relieved not to have witnessed what until just recently had seemed a terrible certainty, the hanging of young Oliver, but they were stupified over what might have become of the boy. Oliver's young aunt seemed certain that the strangely dressed young man knew. The others in the crowd were now starring at Jack Burton in expectence for him to either confirm or deny knowledge of the uncanny incident. The celebrated young author, David Copperfield was also in attendance, along with a man who looked like Mr. Edgar Allen Poe from America. Both men seemed uneasy, as though they, too, harbored some secret of Burton's connection to Oliver's disappearance.

"Everyone! Please!" said Jack, throwing up his hands, "I will try to explain. But believe me, it will not be easy…"

""You must tell us, Burton," Flickart said. "In order to save young Oliver, you must tell us what you know, however wildly improbable it may be. I'll have you know, young man, that Mr. Zebedias Quigsnip has vanished as well, although I place the blame for that upon the cunning of the man and his associates."

Jack Burton produced a small metal device from his coat. For those who had known the man throughout this ordeal, it was one device of many. "I know you do not know me well, but I know secrets of stage magic. I'm sure you've all seen the conjuring tricks performed by amateur and not-so-amatuer magicians." Some among the audience slowly nodded their heads. Burton knew he had to voice his words with utmost care, for fear of being dragged off to the madhouse. People of this time were not known, in general, for their humaitarianism to the insane. "Well, where I come from we have ways of…transporting people, that your average conjurer has never dreamed of. It is not "magic' really of course, as all of you familiar with illusionists are no doubt aware. Mr. Copperfeild himself is amateur illusionist. He may have performed a number of tricks himself at grand parties. Some he doubtless learned from his old friend,Wilkins Micawber."

"Get on with it!" shouted someone.

"Yes, indeed get on with it," Tom Flickart agreed.

"Of course," said Jack, "What I know is ….based on scientific principle."

There was some confused murmuring among the crowd.

"I cannot go into the scientific principles of it—I myself am no sceinttist, after all!—but the device I hold here is..rather like a camera. I point it lens at whatever I wish, and ..the object becomes transported."

More murmuring. And a few derisive laughs.

"So you…transported, young Oliver?" asked Flickart, an ironic smile curling up one side of his face. "Where to, might I inquire?"

Burton sighed heavily, "I can't be the dial was set on a location outside of London. I think we should find Oliver some east of here some five miles approximately, and half a mile to the north—"

"On the coast!"

"Exactly," Burton said, "But we must hurry. Quigsnip has disapeared as well, and we must find Oliver before he does! We must go there now!"

"My feelings exactly!" exclaimed Tom Flickart, "But tell me, do you happen to know something I don't regarding Mr. Quigsnip's disappearance?"

Burton looked uncomfortable. "Only that…it is possible he might reach the lad first." He was at the moment thinking exceedingly uncomfortable thoughts; he had caught a glimpse of Quigsnip, right before the trap was realsed beneath Oliver. Though none other seemed to have noticed it, he had plainly seen the hunchback ascend to the scaffolding, perhaps intent upon throwing the lever himself, in the event the executioner failed to do so. He was in such a postion that he might have been caught in the path of the ray when Oliver had been transported. And if that were so….

"I hope that you are not hiding something, Mr. Burton. I am not certain that I trust you, or that any person in this company does."

There was more murmuring, some of it sounding angry as well as confused.

"There will remain here a detachment of men to continue searching this immediate vicinity for any sign of where the boy and the crime lord may have vanished to; although I admit I cannot guess as to the manner of their disapearance, I would say that it is likely that the former is in the captivity of the latter. But I, along with another detachment of constables, and whoever else is able, shall accompany you on you foray to the coast. And, Mr. Burton, you yourself shall be very closely observed every step of the way."

"Very good!" Mr. Burton said, ignoring Flickart's final sentence. "Who else is with me?"

"_I _certainly am going with you!" Rose said sternly.

"I am, of course," Mr. Copperfield said. "Though I am uncertain, and terribly so, what this entire business is about, I am, as well."

Jack looked at Mr. Poe, who had remained silent, and stunned looking throughout most of this affair. "You're coming with us, aren't you Mr. Poe? I have a feeling your services might be needed."

"I do as well,' said Mr. Poe. "Especially if..thecreature you call The Grinning Man makes his appearance. Though I'm not yet certain what I am to do in that event."

"What I sought you out for," Jack Burton said.

A hush seemed to have gone over the crowd at the mention of the Grinning Man; Jack looked about at the circle of whitening faces. He was slightly shocked; were these people already familiar with him?

"Who is he?" asked a child's vocie.

Burton saw that it belonged to Celia Jacobin, the young girl who had managed to uncover Quigsnip's secret documents.

"I….I don't know," Jack told her.

The was a murmuring amingst the crowd—an apprehensive murmuring this time. Burton relected that perhaps they'd had sightings of the Grinning man; they might have thought him another manifestation of Spring-Heeled Jack, the famed Folkloric entity that had been imfamous during this century—or some other entity rather like him.

Celia turned back to the crowd. "I've seen this man. Jacob Taggle and I both have seen him. I _know_ he's real. His real name is Lord Dervall, and-"

"Wait," said a man's voice, "Ceilia come here."

A tall aristocratic man with immacutlately groomed black air and a mustache shouldered his way through the crowd. Another aristocratic man followed him. This man was younger , with fair skin, blue eyes and flaxon hair. Most people recognized him as Lord Peter Fleming, Oliver Twist's uncle.

"Who am I addressing ?" Burton asked them.

"A am Lord Rutheford Jacobin," said the dark-haired man, "Celia's father," he placed his hand on the girl's shoulder, "and I think I might well know who this person many have witnessed might be."

"You mean the Grinning Man?" Rose asked "Whom so many of us have seen, and who has powers that seem ungodly?"  
"Celia spoke of his true name. Or at least what he calls himself," Lord Ruthford said, "I am a student of literature. And I have quite often read certain texts penned by the celebrated Lord Byron to companies of friends, which Celia has often _that,_ I tell you, is how she knows this man!"

"What does Lord Byron, the poet, have to do with this?" asked Flcikart.

"One such tale he was invited to produce during that famous year without a summer, when catsclysmic events on the continent transformed that time of year into a season of gloom and perpetual dark stormy cilmate. It tells of a man named Darvell, who was on a tour of Eastern Europe with his companion, the unnamed narrator of the tale. Darvell weakened and died of a mysterious malady. His entire contenance turned black, by the narrator's account. Darvell ordered his companion to say nothing of his death to anyone, and…"

"Well…?" Mr. copperfeild pressed. "what happened?"

"I'm afraid Byron never finished his tale."

"What does that have to do with the matters present?" Flickart demanded. "The tale was only a fiction. You can't possibly connect with a phantom who has been widely reproted in and about London this past month. What import could it have?"

"Perhaps nothing." Ruthoford said. "However, Byron was said to have intended for his protagonist to rise form the grave."

"In other words, nothing," said Flickart. "You are wasting our time, sir, while Quigsnip still remains at large. This grinning man, I am conivnced is merely a rumor, or perhaps some costumed actor in his employment who nhas been hired to cause unrest.'

"But what if Byron's tale were not fiction?" suggested Celia's parent. "What if that were precisely why he did not finish it? What if—"

"What nonsense!" exclaimed Flickart. "We will not spend another moment here blathering. Off we go!"


	32. Chapter 33

33

Red and yellow coruscations shifted and blurred before the boy's vision.

Oliver's eyes stung ferociously. His head throbbed deafeningly, and he was stupifyingly dizzy.

He had felt the burn of the coarse rope—the noose, the instrument of his doom—squeeze tight about his child's throat, crushing the air out of him. He had watched the sea of faces below, hostileand sympathetic alike, fade out, as the hole world turned red-black, as he was sent hurtling into space.

And abruptly the blinding pressure of the noose was no longer there. He fell only a few inches, tumbling only a rough rock surface, scarping the palms of his hands. Realizing that he was suddenly able to breathe again, Oliver began drawing long, titantic droughts of heavenly air into his lungs. His neck still burned from the coarse fibers of the rope, but he was very much alive. He remained there, coughing, and drawing the blessed air into his tortured throat, until he was able to breathe with ease, and his vision was rapidly clearing.

Oliver blinked rapidly and looked about him. He knew from the feel of the rope that what he had just experienced had been no dream. Mr. Quigsnip had nearly accomplished his revenge.

Where was he?

A chilled gust of wind whipped about him. Oliver shivered suddenly; he realized it was bitterly cold, at least for a boy dressed only in rags. The rich miasma of smells that was London was now very faint, if there at all, and he realized that he had somehow left the city. There was frigid breeze billowing throught he rocks and screes. Yes—large limestone rocks rose all about Oliver on his every side. There was the refreshing tang of salt in the air. From not far off there rang the tinny cry of a seagull.

That meant he was not in heaven, or any in other realm beyond the world he knew.

Oliver knew where he was. He even recalled it faintly from the few picnics and excersions he'd taken with Rose. He was somewhere along the east coast, that much was certain. How had it happened? It boggled the boy's brain to even consider it. It had all happned so swiftly. He had sensed a change come over the crowd—some of them, anyway—when the humpback man had demanded his death, and, impatient for that event, had clambered up the stiars. The trap door had been released, and the rope had tightened as the boy was sent hurtling toward black yawning death. And then he had awakened here. He remembered nothing in between, no span of moments or hours when a rescue might have been affected, no period when he might have been safely transported away from London and its howling mobs. Yet here he was. Perhaps some sort of rescue had occurred in the final seconds before his intended doom, and his memory had blacked it out, like it had done once before when constable Flickart had shown him his sketch of Mr. Quigsnip .

Oliver climbed shakily to his feet. The sun had been high in the sky at the time of his intended execution. But now it had sank considerably lower. Perhaps he had suffered some sort of memory lapse; yet were that the case, why was the slowly-dying pain in his throat still fresh?

Oliver's mind whirled dizzily with confusion. What should he do now? He dreaded journeying back to London. Whatever had brought him here (an act of God? Witchcraft?) the only thing Oliver could think of to do now was to try walking to his uncle's estate, or the house of Brownlow or the Maylies. But his sense of direction was horridly muddled by his confusion. He would need to walk away form the coast, and that meant toward the city. He would need to get away from this region, but whch direction should he take once he got clear of this place.

Oliver scrambled up the rocky incline. The path between the ooverlooking shelves of ancient limestone was narrow, and wound slowly upward. Oliver continued following to determine where it led. The towering surfaces were layered down into striations by ages upon ages of geologic time; Oliver remembered reading in his aunt's library that fossils of monstrous swimming reptiles of the world before the Flood, such the incredible plesiosaurus and ichthyosaurus, had been discovered in coastal rocks such as these. The path traveled gradually upward in a spiral-like fashion. As it wound about, the rock formations grew ever more towering and impressiive. The harsh cries of the gulls grew louder, and Oliver saw the white birds cruising overhead against the darkening hue of the sky.

At length, the path eneded before a sloping limestone incline. The taste of salt in the cool air was now much more tanglible, and he now heard the clearly the roar of a heavy surf; Oliver could almost taste it with his tongue. Driven by an abrupt impulse to explore and discover, Oliver scrambled up the land on each side of him was composed of shelvers of bare rock, with scraggly tufts of dry grass growing out here and there from out of the cracks in the pocked surface, blowing raggedly in the frigid breeze.. The sky was a refreshing pastel blue, with a few scant swirls of cloud in the late evening sky. He found that the rocky slope terminated in a ridge, overlooking the vast blue ocean. To his right, there marched away soaring cliffs into the blue-ish haze of the distance. The crash of breakers exploding into foam onto the rocks beneath roared in his eardrums. Oliver could feel the refreshment of the spume hitting his upturned face upon the wind, as the cold gusts blew back his white-blond hair in the sea-breeze. He shut his eyes, and raised his arms, as a beautific smile touched his boy felt chilled to his bone, but he didn't mind. After his arduous adventures, he felt curiously and zestfully free in this place. Part of him wondered if this was what heaven might be like, a universe away form the horrid crowds and smells of London, and that part of him longed never to leave. The white forms of gulls swooped and wheeled upon the wind, over the sky and sea and cliffs. The sun was now lowering , throwing its waning light against the magnificent cliffs, painting them in rich, warm hues, while the massing clouds were tinted in orange, shocking pink, and fire-red. Oliver could feel the promise of a glorious sunset, as he had witnessed before on the seaside evening with his aunt, knowing the colors of the sky would flare into glory like a silent display of frozen summer fireworks, then fade into darkness as night cast its vale over the world. And all at once, the cliffs and seascape seemed too beautiful to be real, seemed almost to have no right to exist, after the horrors he had witnessed and experienced, the horror he had just so narrowly and uncannily escaped from. And all at once he wanted nothing more than to remain just were he was , watch nature's beauty unfold and close up before him like a Morning Glory.

But he couldn't. There was something dreadfully wrong, even now, even here. Oliver didn't know how he could sense it, but he did. And he did not doubt his sense for a minute. They were warning him to keep moving moving. He had no idea how far he could get before sundawn, and then before dawn, but he had to get away from here. For beneath the peace and freedom he was permitting himself to enjoy, there was nonetheless a sinister udnercurrent of lurking menace. It was something Oliver could not place a finger upon, but knew was there, nonetheless. He needed to get way from the coast as quickly as possible, evn though he rightfully dreaded going anywhere near London. He would have to traverse the country under the cover of darkness, and hopefully find the direction to one of the homes of his friends when morning came.

Looking back, he could see the path he had taken, and also, beyond the ridges and rock formations, the familiar sweeping green of the English countryside, nad beyond that, the domes and towers of London, hazy in the distant smog. He saw that he was at a high elevation among the cliffs, and he would have to be cautious finding his way down.

Oliver turned away from the beautiful ocean vista and made his way back down the stone path, the wind whipping his hair, and the roar of the waves in his ears. Oliver kept walking,until he had passed the point where he had inexplicitly found himself earlier, and came to a fork in the path.

Which way?

Oliver knew he needed to find the shortest and easiest path, but there was no way of telling which direction would prove thus. Judging by the steepness of the incline, Oliver chose the left one. It was now growing darker, however, and boy made his way down as gingerly as he might, remaining alert for sudden turns and abrupt drop-offs, or places where he might suddenly lose his footing and plunge to his doom. He came to a section of the trail where the walls of the canyon closed alarmingly around him on either side. Oliver feared that he might need to squeeze through in places, or else be forced to turn back, but the way remained wide enough. But after a spell the wall on his right suddenly ended, and the ridge he was walking on remained dizzingly narrow. Oliver glanced into the plunging abyss on his right and looked away as a terrible shudder rippled through him. The boy shut his eyes for a moment, freezing against the wall, before swallowing thickly, and forcing himself to continue at a measured pace, keeping his eyes straight ahead of him. Fortunately for him, the path broadened after little, and Oliver had the feeling he would reach the base of the cliffs before long. But then the path he was on took an abrupt zag to the right, and seemingly away from the country. Oliver followed nonetheless. It had become nearly dark, and Oliver feared if he did not reach the bottom soon, he might lose his way, or worse, not be able to see the path clear enough to traverse it safely. He saw that the slope on his right was now not so frightfully steep, and that the low cliff which rose on the other side seemed nearer. Shadows were flooding the gloom-shrouded canyon, as the last light from the fading sun retreated. Distantly, the weird cry of a night-bird reached Oliver's ears. It was not the cry of a gull. The boy knew he was nearing the countryside.

The path curved to his left and then up slightly. Oliver made his way up the incline forcing his weak legs onward. The weathered rock formations loomed wirdly in the deepening gloom.

_Not much further,_ Oliver assurred himself. _When I'm out of the canyon, I'll find myself some trees and curl up under them. No one will find me there, and I can sleep there until morning._

He_ was _feeling dreadfully sleepy after all his dreadful tribulation, and wanting nothing more than to sleep soundly in his great, downy bed at Maylies'. But the world inhabitated by his genteel friends now seemed like some distant, Paradisical dream, and Oliver felt a horrid welling of loniness at the recollection. Tears of longing sprang to his eyes. He tried to comfort his feeling with the knowledge that his friends must surely be safe and sound, and that he would find his way back inot their welcoming arms if it it took all he had. But that somehow made the the loss well up even more horridly within his small breast, and he forced those thoughts away.

And in the following instant,shadowy form stepped from around a bend in the cliff, directly into the boy's path.

Oliver nearly screamed. The figure held a guttering torch in one hand, doubtless made form a makeshift branch, and let from the abundant oil that rolled in to the sea form the Thames. It was clearly that of an adult, though it was not much greater in height than his own. He could discern that the form was hunchbacked, and appeared mishapen in what measure of daylight remained. He knew at once who it was, the only person that it could be. And as thethe man stepped closer, and held the torch out, Oliver could see clearly the man's hideous features. And the hunchback saw Oliver, and gave the fear-frozen boy a twisted grin.

"_Twist! Oliver Twist!"_ Quigsnip raved. Oliver, in cold terror, recalled the voice of the hunchback well, though he'd only encountered thrice in his young life, four times, counting now._ "I've got you now, young Twist! _Did you think that you were alone?"

Oliver, dazed with fright, began to back up, as the hunched-over form began to hobble at a frighteningly furious gate toward him.

"Oh, I knew you were here, young Oliver. I heard your small footsteps from far off, and crept along the cliff above, saw where you were heaeded, and cricled around to greet you. I don't know how we're both here, young Oliver, or how you escaped the gallows. Mayhap the Lord decided to make it personal. Mayhap he saved you for me to finish off_! Yes, yes—I'm certain that he did!"_

Oliver backed up, casting about frantically for some means to defend himself. Then he saw something. Some sort of implement—ancient knitting needle, from the look of it, perhaps left here by some lady's excursion to the beach long ago. Oliver dove for it it, snatched it up with weak, trembling hands. The boy held out his purloined weapon in a shaking grip, holding it in both hands, not knowing precisely how to fend his monstrous adversary off with it.

With a ferocious lunge that appeared more animal-like than human, the hunchback sprang forward. Oliver,awkwardly attempted to fend the man off with the knitting needle, but Quigsnip drove his fist smashing against Oliver's left wrist. The boy cried out, the needle flying from his hands. He barely managed to twist away in time, as the humpbacked man lunged for him.

With a whirl of his blond locks, Oliver turned heel and fled back up the trail the way he'd come..

"_You can't get away , boy!"_ the hunchback raved at him. "_There's no way you can hide! Whereever you run to, I'll find you!"_

His horrid voice echoed madly off the shadowed walls. The boy as if he were pursuded by a vengeful deomn. Spurred on by a frenzy of terror Oliver dashed up the path, wanting only to distance himself as far as possible form his pursuer. The boy was so blind in his extreme terror to everything else, that his foot struck a protruding finger of rock. Oliver tried to blance himself, but the effort only imbalanced him further, causing him to be flung sideways, over the edge. The boy screamed, fearing that at last the end had come. Thoughts zinged through the boy's mind as he fell through space—thought s of Rose, Mr. Brownlow, and his uncle, Lord Peter Fleming, and all the kindness they'd shown him, how his thin, frail body would be recovered, bashed and shattered like a puppet upon the rocks, how they'd mourn his loss, how he'd greet them all one day in the afterlife…..

He felt himself strick the side of the slope, nearly jarring the consciousness from him. But the surface was of hard-packed soil, rather than stone, then tumble down it, limp as a rag doll. The ground slammed into Oliver, driving the wind from the boy's lungs. The impact nearly drove consicousness from him his well. His senses were spinning deliriously, and for several moments, he was unable to recollect his situation. But gradually, as be blinked away the searing blotches of bright color before his eyes, he recalled his flight from the hunchback, and his tumble down the slope. The ground he had landed upon was hard, cold ground, with bits of hard gravel which bit savagely into the sensitive skin of his delicate hands and fingers. Oliver knew he had to run, but he so terribly dizzy that he was incapable of orienting himself

Zebedias Quigsnip's's coarse laughter suddenly rebounded off the cliffs. Oliver sensed that his moment of reckening had come. He would now pay for Nancy's death. Perhaps he deserved it.

The man's misshapen form landed in a sly crouch directly in front of him, still clutching the torch. "Well, now, my blond-haired, young angel- are you ready to receive the death that you so justly deserve, for murdering my poor Nancy?" Oliver's ears still rang, and he coughed as he looked up at the gloating Quignsip. The deformed man's hideous face was leering over him. Oliver turned his hopelessly tired face up at him, blank weariness in his large eyes.

"_What?!" _raved Quignsnip. The hunchback rammed the torch into the wall of the slope. With claw-like fingers he reached down and savagely pulled the boy to his feet. He glared feroicously into Oliver's face. The guttering white-yellow torch illuminated the tableau luridly, making the man's features even more hideous. Quignsip's features contrasted sharply with Oliver's; the torch also created the effect of accentuating the pale, angelic beauty of the boy's features as it cast its light upon them. Quignsip hated this face with all of his soul. But he read no resistence there.

"You _wish_ to die, young Oliver Twist?"

"I…I,"Oliver could scarcely find his voice. "I….still want to live—but only because of Rose, and my friends!"

The man's grip tightened on the boy's collar. The hunchback's eyes filled with rage. And even in his resignation, Oliver was terrified as he beheld it. _"NO!"_ snarled he hunchback into Oliver's delicate features. "You're supposed to whine, scream,beg for me to spare you!" he shook the lad violently "And I'll see you do it! Beg, you young twit! Beg for your pathetic life!"

But even as he uttered those words, Quigsnip observed a steely defience lock into Oliver's blue eyes as the boy readied himself for his life to come ot itsend.

The hunchback's hideous features contorted with rage, fashioning them into a contenance that seemed literally demonic to the horrified boy. But Oliver did not lose his resolve; he had begged his brutish captors to no avail back when they sold him to Gamfield. Even if he did deserve to die for Nancy, he wouldn't allow his tormentor the satisfaction this time! And he saw on Quignsip's face shock mixed in with the rage. He saw that Oliver was not now quite the same boy that he had been before.

But then the hunchback's features reformed themselves into a smile of diabolism. "So…I see the tribulations you've been through 'ave changed you boy. Maybe having been 'prenticed to that sweeper-man did ya some good! And I admit that I respect you a mite more. But let's see if we can't change that, shall we?"

And despite himself, Oliver gave voice to a low whimper of dread.

The man whipped out a huge-bladed knife form beneath his ragged coat, and teased it under the boy's chin. Oliver watched, in a daze, as frolicing light of the torch as it flickered along the tempered blade. "Why don't we make some slices and cuts with on your face boy? _Then_ we'll see if anyone takes pity on you, like my poor, dead Nancy did!"

Oliver bit down his terror, as he stared his fate in the face.

A low rumble reached the ears of both Quignsip and his captive. The hunchback looked sharply up, and Oliver followed his gaze as best he could.

On the low cliff-shelf facing them on their left, a mob had gathered. The faces of the peoplewere not discernible from the distance, but some mong their number bore torches with them, casting a dim glow above the cliff. There also appeared to be one or more uniformed constables at the head of the mob.

"There they are!" someone shouted from the cliff.

"It's Quigsnip, and he's got the boy!"

Quigsnip cursed his fortune. The mob had obviously come from London, and this time, they were convinced of the boy's innocence. That meant he had no time to savor his vengeange. He had to kill the boy quickly—but kill him he would! The mob was not about to cheat him of what he anticipated for so long.

Quigsnip seized his captive's long hair,and, knotting it, jerked Oliver's head back, exposing the boy's throat to his blade. "Goodbye, Oliver Twist!" he snarled in hate, _"This is for my dear, sweet Nancy! Remember her while you die!"_

Quigsnip whipped back his blade to slash open Oliver's jugular vein.

On the cliff above, the mob gave vent to massed excalmation so horror. They watched as the blade descended in a silvery was a splash of crimson.

Rose Malyie gave a a wail of sumpreme agony. _"Oh, Oliver! He killed Oliver!"_

"H-he can't have done it!" Jack Burton shouted. "He can't! Oliver's the main character_—this world will not allow it!"_

"I'm afraid he has." said Tom Flcikart, his tone full of disbeleif, nonetheless. "We're too late to save the boy."

All eyes were riveted upun the tableau below, as the hunchbackflung the boy to the ground. Even from their vantage point, the mass of onlookers could observe the slowly spreading pool of scarlet, shining glossy in the dancing light of Quignsip's torch.

"_Nooooooo!"_ Rose wailed. The young woman collapsed to her knees in asobbing hyteria.

Jack Burton, unable to comprehend what his eyes told him had transpired, edged himself out of the trnsfixed crowd, and ran toward the the inclined path which wound down to the ledge where Quigsnip and Oliver were.

"Farewell young Twist…" Quigsnip breathed, as he stood, a gloating troll-like shape, over his frail, angelic victim. Oliver choked, eyes bulging as he vomitted forth black blood, even as crimson gushed from his throat.

The thrill had been supreme, a tremendous high. Yet…no that he survyed his revenge, observed the young boy twitching spasmodically like a fatally injured young cony, Quignsip, somehow, beneath the gloss of his triumph, felt an underlying hollowness to his victory. Something was not right. But why should that be? Did he feel remorse for what he'd done?Of course not! The boy was the end-point of all his pent up hatred.

And yet…

"_Ha ha ha ha haaa!"_

The laughter had issued out of the shadows, soft, and mad and gloating.

Quigsnip whirled about, a devilish look in his eye "Who dares…?" the hunchback snarled.

From out of the shadows and into the torchlight stepped the preternaturally tall, caped form of the Grinning Man. His skin was slug-white, his eyes, vampiric-red. And his teeth were a ghastly-sharp and white as he grinned the terrible grin of a marauding shark.

"Mr. Darvell…" said Quignsip.

"So we once again, my partner, in crime, although, I'm afraid I can't consider you my partner anymore. You've been found out, my friend. Oh, and all those people just saw you murder Oliver! There's no going back for you. But that's what you wanted, isn't it? You've got you're revenge . Oliver Twist at last is dead! Ah, the sweetness of revenge!"

And Quigsnip had indeed felt giddy with the rush of triumphing at last, a tremendous drug-like euphoria. But now he felt the hollowness beneath grow and blossom into something like remorse. It was over—Oliver was dead. He should be drunk with victory. But he wasn't—something was amiss. "This…this is not what I wanted." He stammered faintly.

"Really? Then whatever _did _you want?"  
"I..I don't know." It was as though Quigsnip's life flashed before his eyes then. It was a life given over to crime and villainy,most of it consumed by a mad desire to gain control over others. Perhaps it had to do with being scorned by his own parents because of his misshapeness far back in his long-expired youth. There there was kindness of his aunt, an the stern ruthlessness of his uncle once they'd taken him in. Was it that that made him what he was? Perhaps. But he'd loved both of his daughters, in particular Nancy! Yes, his first beloved child. He'd sent her away as form of punishing her, yes. He undertood that now, very clearly. He didn't want to see her dragged down and corrupted, but that was exactly what he'd done to her! That was what led to her murder by Sikes! Quigsnip, for all his villainy released it now, as though some mysterious vail had been lifted from his eyes. Though he could scarcely fathom the sudden ocean of change that had some over him, he didn't want the boy to die now. He turned back toward Oliver, still twitching, holding his throat, in a feeble attmept to stay the flow of blood. But though the boy still clung to life, Quignsip saw that there was nothing he could do. There was no way to stopper the boy's loss of blood, no way to prevent his death.

"I'm afraid it's too late, Mr. Quignsip," the Grinning Man told him solumly. "You'll have to look forward to an eternity in chains. Oh, and I wonder what your beloved think! I wonder what she does think, if she can see us from where she is. You've just killed the boy she gave her life to save! As though condemning her to a life of poverty wasn't enough. And then there's Eloise! She'll know about this, of course. No matter what they do to you, she'll know, and she'll curse her father's name to her dying day!"

And suddenly the full knowledge of the Truth of what he had committed burst upon Quigsnip. The humpback man, London's most imfamous crime-baron, fell to his knees and cried out mournfully in his rasping voice_. "Mercy! What have I done!"_

"Why, you've had you're revenge, Mr. Quigsnip. What do you think you've done?"

"_No! I didn't the boy to die! I want Oliver back!"_Quigsnip cried, his voice trembling with unaccustomed sorrow. "_I want to tell him I'm sorry..for everything!"_

"Want him back?" sneered the Grinning Man. "Really Mr. Quigsnip? A black-hearted fiend like you? My, you should have thought this through before now. "

Mr. Quigsnip was siezed by confusion. In his mind he heard , _No! I can't be feeling remorse! And _certainly_ not for that disgustingly pure-heartedTwist brat. The boy who cost me everything when he destroyed the Fagin gang! I am Mr. Zebedias Quigsnip, London's greatest crime lord! I am without ethics or mercy, or the finer feelings! I am the villain, the ogre of this tale! I am a monster!_

"Yes, that is correct Mr. Quigsnip," the Grinning Man said, somehow reading his thoughts very well "Indeed, my friend. You _are_ a monster."

And Mr. Quigsnip, the most notorious fence in England, the crime lord above all others, whose name was spoken of in whisters of dread, began to weep.

But wait—

The Grinning Man peered over the kneeling humpbacked man-Oliver Twist had vanished!

Jack Burton had seized the unconscious boy by his arms and dragged him around a bend in the path, hidden by the wall in the slope.

"Here," Jack Burton had told Oliver, "Press it down hard!"

He had handed the boy a rag and made him press it to his throat to stem to deluge of the boy's life-blood.

Then he gathered the limp boy into his arms and ran a short distance. Oliver was choking and gasping. Bloody froth bubbled from his lips. Life was slowly vacating the boy. Another couple of moments and Oliver would enter the spirit realm.

Burton reached ito one of his many pockets and drew another one of his devices forth. This one had nothing to do with interdimansional travel, or transportation but was purely for clinical purposes. The medics of the 19th, 20th, and 21st centuries had nothing even approaching such technology, but in Burton's time, doctors had a way of treating open wounds that literally re-knit disrupted tissue back togather at the molecular lever. Burton aimed the device at the boy's throat, and switched it on.

Oliver's jugular vein had been laterally slashed open with the knife. Already, the boy had lost much blood. But as Burton drew that the tissue-reconstructor slowly across the gaping wound, the boy's skin and flesh reconstituted themselves. The slashed jugular closed itself up, and gapping wound,ouring blood, sealed up without bearing even a scar. The front of Oliver's shirt was soggy with blood, and boy may have lost several full quarts. He would live, but he desperately needed rest. Oliver whined faintly, and his eyelids gave a feeble flutter.

"You're going to be okay, boy," Jack Burton told him. "But you've lost a lot of blood. I know you've been through this before, when you were wounded at your aunt's house."

"Rose?" Oliver asked feebly, lost in a haze of wooziness. "Where is she-?"

"I'll take you to her, Oliver."

"Stop!" commended a voice. Jack and Oliver looked up to see the Grinning Man, towering around the bend in the wall

"What do you want?" Jack demanded.

"I want the boy!" snarled Lord Darvell barring his shark-like teeth. "I need him to be dead!"

"You won't have him!" said Burton fiercely. He got to his feet to confront the Grinning Man. He reached within his coat to retrieve his pocket laser.

Darvell reached out a white, claw-like hand. A frazzle of white-fire, like chain-lightening surged forth from his hand to strike Burton in the chest, and the man fell over. Whether the man who'd saved him was dead or unconscious, Oliver didn't know.

"A lovely sight, is it not, boy?" Lord Darvell said. "To see your rescuer lying there, perhaps dead, on your on account?Rather like poor dear Nancy!"

"Nooo!" Oliver cried in sudden childish fury,, as he fung himself at the towering spector. But his reflexes were slow, his mind still dizzy form blood loss, and the Grinning man merely reached and seized Oliver by his wrist. "Got you, boy! And I believe a demonstration is now in order!" He dragged the confused boy back up the path. Oliver gasped feebly in protest, but it was beyond useless to struggle.

As Darvell rounded the side of the slope, dragging his limb captive, they were greeted by the mass of Londoners. They had come with pistols and firebrands.

But now they stood frozen with fear at the sight of the towering spectre who now confronted them, cape billowing fantastically in the night, the pale sheen of his skin's whiteness seeming to nearly to give off a glow in the torch's illumination, his barrage of teeth grinning ferociously, his red, unnatrual eyes radiating madly within the gloom. Quigsnip was among them, in the custody of Thomas Flickart. Oliver weakly recognized him, remembered fleetingly the instant that should have been his death, when blackness had claimed him, insterspersed by flickering light. Now, the man appeared to have gained some of his former ogreishness back—but then he beheld young, Oliver, and gapped at what his eyes beheld.. The boy was still alive, though appeared woozy,barley able to stand, obviously having sustained a heavy loss of blood, though the monster held onto him, and the dark crimson of blood shone wetly on the fabric of the boy's ragged shirt in the torchlight. But thelad's throat appeared to have miraculaous ly healed.

Lord Darvell drew forth a vial of crimson liquid. The liquid gleamed an uncanny crimson, the same hue as the monster's crimson vampire-eyes, defying the darkness.

The crowd's attention was riveted. Many of them had heard of this monster before, but only a few had actually seen his reality, and now the mob was possessed by collective terror now that his reality confronted them.

"Greetings!" boomed the voice of Lord Darvell. "In spite of Mr. Quigsnip's apparent tripumph a moment or so ago, it appears young Oliver Twist has managed to elude death once more! So with all of you here bent on rescuing the boy, allow me, as your future Lord and Ruler, to make a demonstration of my power!"

Darvell quick motion in the air. To their left, over the lip of the precipice, the air itself literally split and cracked. To the astonished eyes of the Dickensverse inhabitants, it appeared as a rift in the very fabric of reality itself, which was precisely what was. They could not look at it directly, for an intense white-hot light shone up out of it with a brightness so fierce it rendered direct eye contact physically impossible.

"Let me explain!" exclaimed Lord Darvell, known to some as The Grinning Man, with the stupendous boom of his voice. "What you see beofe you is a fissure in the face of your reality, a portal an entire other world-_many _other worlds, in fact! Long ago, I in the days of my youth, I explored the far reaches of _my own_ version of your earth, in order to locate a means of attaining everlasting life. I finally found it high in the Himalayas of central Asia, when I visited a Tibetan holy man, the last priest of a nealry extinct sect. He placed an ancient spell on me, and told me that after a year and quarter, I would die a bizarre death, only to be born a_ Yetsva,_ creature of nightmare, similar to your own world's iidea of a vampire, but far more powerful. I returned to my home nation of England, and months later embarked on a sojurn to Turkey with a young man I had known in school. Well, I met with my subsquent fate, and he buried me according to my instructions! And upon regaining my powers I returned to London, intent on giving him the shock of his life. I stood in the gaslight of a lamp in the fog one dark, dark night, and eagerly anticpated for my former companion to emerge from a hotel! And so he did. But as I emerged form the fogged night, appearing as I do now-I think he might have seen me for an isntant, for he started, called my name aloud! But then—it was though he couldn't see me! I had become invisible to him! Was this what it meant to be a _Yetsva_—to live out the rest of my days unseen to the waking world? So I wondered the earth for years—unseen by all—until I found out. It is too long a tale to tell you, but I found out! Oh, what a rage it was to me, to you too, if only you knew! My world, my very existence was not real! I was merely the creation of a writer! As are all of _you! _I had been written out by my creator! He had left my tale unfinished. And though I could not return to my own past and finish my tale, I found that once I discovered the secret of traveling to other worlds created by other authors, I found ways in which I could infect them, change them! And I could re-awaken other characters, who, like myself, had been written out of their tales. Men such as Mr. Quigsnip, for example!"

The crowd coninued to gaze at Darvell, caught up in his tale. The booming, unnatural voice that the creature possessed somehow commanded their attention, even over the howl of the coastal wind. And even though the words themsleves would have seemed the ravings of a madman, the sheer command of the voice that uttered them belied all suspect of lunacy. And the rift in space somehow spoke the truth that forces far beyond anything they could comprehend were at work here. And though some of them yet had doubts at first, even the most severely skeptical members were growing more and more certain that this creature was no extremely tall actor disguised with extraordinarily convincing makeup.

"And now," boomed Darvell, "I will tell give you proposal." He held out the vial of glowing red liquid. "This fluid has been obtained from another universe adjacent to your own. It contains a plague known as the _Red Death!_"

There was some murmuringin in the crowd.

"This is a fake!"a voice cried out, with a tinge of desperation "The Red Death is not real! It is a story—a fiction—by Mr. Edgar A. Poe! "

"SO IT IS!" Boomed the Grinning Man, "Quite astute of you, sir! Ah, I do ebelive that Mr Poe is in the crowd with us on this night!"  
There was more murmuring at this, and the man called Poe looked uncomfortable.

"I believe Mr. Poe and I have already met! You know the truth of what I'm saying don't you, sir? Care to explain the deadly nature of this plague?"

Poe nodded mutely, eyes haunted. The people around back away form the man, staring. "The Red Death is real," Poe stated flatly. "And it will consume this entire world."

Oliver, still clutched by Darvell's vice-like grip, stirred weakly. Half in a haze, the boy had listened to his captor's proclamations.

"No! this _can't_ be real! It is some mad, parlor trick!" someone else shouted.

"Indeed?" raved Darvell. "A trick?Would you really want to see what would happened if I unstoppered this bottle? Or would you want to see what become of this boy if I were to fling him into the portal, here?"  
Oliver who seemed to have regained a scant amout of strengte, trashed in his captor's grip.

Darvell chuckled hoarsely, and yanked the lad to the lip of the precipice. "See here, boy?" he thrust the boy partway over the edge, but did not loose his grip upon him. Oliver,shocked back into alertness, despite his massive loss of blood, gazed in a horrified stupor into the crimson-eyed visage of the Grinning Man. Oliver's tongue clove to his palette; he was unable to even more nor speak. "Can you guess, boy, what will happen to you when I throw you into that _thing?"_

Oliver shook his blond head mutely.

"I'll tell you," Darvell turned his scarlet gaze to the stupified Londoners "and you too. Don't think of making may move against me, even those of you who have happened to learn my few paltry weaknesses. Not if you ever want to see this boy alive again. If I throw him into the portal, he will not end up in another world! I have opened it up to the ether, the stuff which permeates the cracks _in between _these worlds. Now, I have have long discovered the means to create tunnels_ between_ the worlds. As has my good 23rd century friend Jack Burton. But woe to any resident of your world who falls into the ether! For the ether is made up of billion s and billions of tiny organisms whith razor-sharp"teeth."Like super-micrscopic eels crossed with piranhas, with teeth like revovling, flesh-devouring blades! And what do _they_ do? What is _their _purpose in the management of the multiverse? Well, good friends, they attack any organism that is not real, any fictictious organism, and eat it alive. They destroy it before it can break out of its own world. You foolish, foolish creatures who think you are real, and not the creations of a 19th century novelist, would be made short work of. "

As though for effect, he pulled the dizzy Oliver further over the brink of the precepice, so that the boy felt pressed into the full brillinace of the stinging light. The monster forced the boy's willowly arm over the brink. Gasps and shrieks rose from the crowd.

"Feel this, boy?"Darvell said silkily." It is your own fictitious flesh being eaten alive!"

Oliver felt the skin if his fingers begin to over-so-faintly to burn. The effect was faint, but but horridly real. It really was as thoughhe could picture in his mind, zillions of tiny, tiny creatures, beginning to nibble away at the molecules of his hand. The sensation grew slightly more intense. If Darvell held him there long enough, he sensed, the sensation with build to blinding agony.

"They can sense you aren't supposed to exist, and so the ether reacts to consume you-for those tiny creatures _are_ the ether, Oliver! They are its living, writhing substance, and they know you don't really exist! How could you anyway?" he yanked the boy away form the cliff, much to Oliver's relief. "Thnik about it! A Parish orphan who speaks like agenteel nobleman? You don't exist, Oliver, any more than a unicorn exists!"

And that was when Oliver did the unexpected. While Darvell was preoccupied with gloating, the boy plucked the vial of scarlet fluid from the mosnter's hand, unstoppered it_,-and poured the fluid full down his throat!_

"NOOOOO!" raored Darvell. He flung Oliver from him—driectly towrd the edge of the cliff. Oliver's arm flung up, and he caught the edge of the precipice. Darvell stepped toward him. "You think, you've defeated me, Twist!" Dervall's tremendous voice, for the first time, had a desperate streak in it._ "You think You've sacrificed your life, and saved your world? Well, you have not! I have _more _of the Red Death! You only drank one—"_

In that instant the crowd surged forward. Constable Flickart flung his torch at the towering spectre. Caught off-balance, Darvell raored with rage as the brand set his claok on fire. He toppled from the edge. Oliver watched over his shoulder, as the Grinning Man plunged into the blindind portal, which snapped sealed like a trapped door.

"Oliver…?" someone cried.

The boy had managed to pull himself back over the edge of the cliff. The crowd started forward. Flickart began to reach out his hand.

"NO!" cried the boy. "stay away form me!"

And the people in the crowd could see why. Already, in the collective light of their torches, they could see, in horror, that the boy's face was covered in horrid, running crimson sores.

"Wait!" cried a voice. Mr. Edgar Allen Poe shouldered his way through the crowd. He looked down upon young Oliver Twist. "Maybe..may be I can help you, boy."

Poe reached out a comforting hand.

"_No!"_ cried Oliver, in his weak, child's spprano-voice. "I don't want to infect any of you!"

Then blackness drew itself over the boy's vision and Oliver Twist knew no more.


	33. Chapter 34

34

_Oliver…._

_Oliver…._

The boy heard his name being called over and over echoing mournfully over and over as though through a vast emptiness. He felt as though he were floating, hurtling gentley, had-over-heels through space. Who was calling him? As in his dreams, the voice sounded like that of Dick, the workhouse orphan. But then the voice changed, or else a new voice had bgun to call to him.

Oliver recognized it well. The voice belonged to Nancy.

He remembered drinking the poison, remebered the Grinning Man's cursing him, seeing the ogre's hellish-red eyes, his terrible array of teeth. He remembered pain, blossoming like fire-flowers through what seemed like his every pore, remebered the man seeking to help him. He was about to cry out to them to burn his corpse, so that no one else became infected.

All sensation of pain was gone now. Though he felt as though he were tumbling through space, the sensation was almost pleasant.

Then he was able to discern both light and darkness around him. Though he was falling through a void of blackness a light that was brillaint in its intensity shone from somewhere ahead, and Oliver realized that he was tumbling toward it. The light was blindingly fierce, and stung his retinas—although Oliver realized that he shouldn't have functioning retinas anymore. Yet his vision reacted as though he did, and he shut his eyes against the glare.

But the light's blinding quality became less intense, and slowly Oliver was able to look directly into it. The light was now warm, soothing and inviting.

Though he couldn't have said why, Oliver felt as though he had finally come…home.

He collapsed onto a solid, though soft, surface. When he'd been tumbling through space, the sensation had seemed bodiless. But now, he could feel the surface beneath him very phsyically. The boy blinked and got to his feet. Was he still on earth? Had he been mysteriously transported somewhere again?

No. This time was different. This time, Oliver realized, his body must have died and he was no longer on earth.

Oliver blinked in uncomprehanding wonderment.

Before him swept what must have been mile upon mile of rolling, undulating meadows and hillocks covered in thick grass of the most intense emerald he had ever imagined. The rolling fields were covered, here and there, with vast drifts of flowers representing all manner of beautiful hues. The sky above was a intense summer blue, with vast billows of cumulous clouds. Far away, Oliver could see of vast forest, some of the mighty trees, appearing, even in the distance, to be of the same girth as the giant sequoiahs he'd read grew wild in parts of America. And further distant, rearing colossally beyodn the great forest, there towered a city. It was such a city as stunned the boy's imagination, made his very senses reel. The mighty columns and towers apeared to be of gold and glass, though that hardly seemed possible, and they were constructed on a scale so vast that they dwarfed the greatest arcitecture of London to puny insignificance. More, there was a radiant beauty to the city's construction which transcended all earthly arcitecture.

Oliver was overwhelmed by the bauty of his surroundings, of which all earthly beauty seemed merely a pale copy. He had no doubt at all that he was looking upon Heaven itself. There was also a loviness here that transcended mere visual pleasure, something about his surroundings that made Oliver want to fall on his knees and weep for joy. He somehow felt that he'd been made for this place all along.

"_Oliver!"_

The voice was that of a girl, and sounded like she was somewhere near his own age. Oliver turned toward the voice, and saw a young girl come running across the flower-strewn sward in his direction. She came to a halt a few yards form him. Oliver saw that she had a pretty face and long, light brown hai, and wore a blue, white-emboirdered r. She looked about twelve or slightly older. The gil smiled at him "Welcome Oliver. They said I'd find you here."

"Who—who are you?" Oliver asked.

"Nell Trent."

"I'm Oliver. Oliver Twist. But…you must have known that."

Nell Trent nodded. "Your friend, Dick Swubble, told me all about you."

"Then …then this _is _Heaven!" Oliver gasped.

"It is," Nell told him.

"Then you…you must be…"Oliver couldn't quite quit make himself utter the word, but he reached out and lightly touched her on the arm and shoulder. "Y-you're solid. Not a ghost! Shouldn't you…"

Nell laughed slightly. :That's not how it is, Oliver. Yes, if I were on earth now, I'd be a ghost. And so would you. We'd be ghosts if we were in the underworld. The people there aren't given bodies. But here, we have new ones. In Heaven, we're alive again, as much as we were on earth!"

"I..think I see," said Oliver. "Is Dick here, too?"

"Yes. He sent me for you. I'll take you to him."

Oliver and Nell walked over the glorious, blossom covered fields. The grass was wonderfully lush and thick, and gave forth a wonderfully sweet, summery scent. The flowers, of course, were themselves wonderfully fragrant, perfuming the air with their sweetness. A pleasantly cool and wonderfully refreshing breeze was blowing, tossing back Nells, long brown tresses, and Oliver's blond locks.

"I know why you're here, Oliver," Nell said to him.

"Why?" Oliver asked.

"You gave your life to save the world you knew. Much like Nancy put her life at risk for you, and lost it."

"I'm very sorry for her," Oliver said, almost weeping again. "I didn't want her to do that!"

"No, of course not," Nell told him. "But she did it anyway. Because she cared for you."

"I cared about her too, " Oliver said "I didn't want her to die. I never asked her too! It was her father…who…who.."

"Yes," said Nell, "She told me abou that."

"You…you know her?"

"Of course. Mr. Quigsnip is blinded by his own selfishness, Oliver. That's why he wanted to take your life."

"But Nancy was his daughter! And she died because of me. I took his daughter's life."

"No you didn't, Oliver. I said, her father was blinded by selfishness, like I told you. But maybe you helped change that."

Oliver hoped that he had, but he didn't see how.

Nell looked at him seriously. "He…nearly murdered you. But he was sorry afterward."

"Was he?" Oliver found what Nell said difficult to believe. Quigsnip seemed without any trace of remorse. He was London's crime lord. His entire life was given over to villainy. But somehow, he loved his daughters. And for that, Oliver felt sorry for the man.

Nell looked away as they kept walking. "I knew another man once. He was as terrible as Mr. Quignsnip. His name was Mr. Daniel Quilp. He took my grampa's, and tried take me for his own."

Oliver gasped at the implications of that."What did you do?" he asked.

"My grampa and I fled from him. Mr. Quilp sent his hirelings in pursuit, and he and they framed a good friend of mine for theft. But they were found out. Mr. Quilp is dead now, but he is not here." She looked at Oliver. "Maybe you can save Mr. Quignsip from sufering the same fate."

"I…" Oliver at first didn't see how he could. Though he pitied the man, whose life was imersed in his own villainy, Quignsip still terrified him. It was difficult to imagine the crime-lord as anything other than an ogre who wanted his life. What could he do to reform him, even if he could be reformed?

Nell smiled slightly at Oliver. "You'll find a way."

"But…I'm not even –"

"_Oliver! Oliver!"_

A small, dark-haired boy came racing over the sward toward Oliver and Nell. Oliver, to his intense joy, saw that it was Dick, his former workhouse companion. He had grown some it seemed, so the passage of time must be similar in heaven as it was on eath. He now looked about twelve, Oliver's own age.

The two young orphans rushed into each other's arms and embraced one another joyfully.

"Dick! Dick! You're alive! You're alive again!" Oliver cried. Oliver, tears shining on his cheeks, saw at once how his friend was now much healthier than he remembered. His cheeks were flushed rosey red, not wan and shallow as they had been on earth, when he had been kept in a near-starved condition. "Oh, Dick! Rose and I were about to save you, when—"

"It's alright, Oliver!" Dicked cried. "I'm fine now!"

"But..when I saw you before, in my dream…"

"I met you in the place between heaven and the underworld," Dick said. "You still saw me as you remembered me. But now, it's like I've finally come home."

"Nancy! Is Nancy here, too?" Oliver asked.

"Yes," said Dick "My mum is here. My real Mum! I never knew her on earth Oliver, like you never met your mum. But here, we've found each other."

"Oliver!" cried a voice, a fond, female voice from Oliver's looked over to see Nancy smiling at them..

Oliver actually burst into tears and raced across the flower-starred grass toward her. He threw himself into her arms

"Oh, Nancy!" cried Oliver, weeping, half in greif, half in joy. "I'm so sorry! I never thought I'd see you again!"

._"Oh, Oliver, Oliver!" _she took the Oliver by his frail shoulders, and set the boy in front of her. "Oh, Oliver dear.I"m so happy to see you again."

"But what about you!" wept Oliver. "You died because of me!"

Nancy shook her head, "No, dear! You musn't blame yourself, Oliver! I made my own choice when I peached on Monks. It's a choice I'd glady make again, if you were ever in danger! It was Bill, and my father, what done me in Oliver! Remember that, dear."

Oliver nodded, sniffed, and managed a faint smile through his tears.

"I do miss Bill, Oliver. I miss him dearly. But…he's not here." She turned her eyes briefly a away and gave a harrowing sob.

Oliver felt an unexpected rush or remorse for Bill Sikes. He must have wound up in the other place—as one of the moaning ghosts with chains that Dick had informed him of. "Will…will Bill _always_ be there? Is there no hope for him?"  
Nancy looked sadly at him." I…don't know. Oliver." She sobbed again. "I really don't know.."

Oliver sobbed too. He felt a terrible grief for Sikes, for Fagin, for all of the souls who had made terrible choices, but who had been born into circumstances beyond their control.

"I want to see my Bill again," Nancy wept. "But I want to see him changed. I want to see him different than he once was. May there's a chance. It's one of the things they don't tell us here. But…my father…you've met him, haven't you, Oliver?"

Oliver nodded. He couldn't find the voice to talk about Quigsnip, about what theman had tired to have done to him.

Nancy smiled sadly at the boy. "I'm sorry, Oliver. Sorry for everything. I never told you about him, Oliver. I never thought you'd have to face him. But you did."

"Yes," said Oliver said, recalling the horrors he had endured during his last month on earth. "Oh! I wish it was alright between you and him."

"You would? I'm..not sure I could accept my father now, dear," Nancy told him. "Not after what he tried to do to you!"

"But what if you could change?" Oliver suggested. "Wouldn't you want to see him then?"

"Of course, sweet. But my father is _evil,_ Oliver. I'm not sure he could change, not now anymore."

"Yes, he could!" said Oliver, a sudden feirceness in his voice, certain, all at once, that even Quigsnip could change for the better.

Nancy smiled sadly at him. "You're such a sweet boy, Oliver. Just like you always were. So forgiving. But even you can't change him. I don't think anyone can."

"He loves you, Nancy." Oliver seriously. "I know he does, deep down, even after what he did to you. And I know he can change."

"Well…let's keep hoping, then shall we?" tearfully, she embraced the boy again. Dick walked over, and clasped his small arms aroun dhis mother and Oliver. Nancy hugged tight both orphan boys, the dark-haired boy and the blond boy, her long lost son and Oliver Twist. All three of them were now embracing one another, and delighting in their reunion.

Oliver felt Nancy's arms seeming to grow insubstantial. Their warm embrace was slowly fading. Oliver gasped and drew back, as did Nancy. She and Dick were now staring at Oliver in sudden alarm.

Oliver felt as though physical sensation were draining out of him. He held up his hands in shock. They were gradually fading in front of his eyes!.

"What's happening?" he cried.

"You…you're leaving us!" cried Dick.

"You're being called back," said Nell Trent. "You were only halfway dead, Oliver. Someone has saved your life!"

"But—" Oliver wasn't certain now that he even wished to leave. This was the place he truly yearned for. And his mother! She must be here as well! But Rose, and Browlow, and Lord Peter Fleming, and the rest…he found himself suddenly thinking of them. They were all back on earth still. And they needed him. As did others.

"Oh, Oliver dear!" cried Nancy sadly. "You have your whole life yet to live! Live it well!"

"Goodbye, Nan!" cried Oliver, as the world about him began to fade. "Goodbye!"

The sight of Nancy and Dick, mother united at last with her orphaned child, holding each other and watching him, and of Nell Trent in her bright blue and white dress standing beside them slowly faded from Oliver's view. The rolling sward of emerald, the fields of flowers of impossible colors, the glorious city and swirling bilows of clouds blurred out of his vision. Oliver's head swam drunkenly, as the colors merged into each other, and swirled togather in a mad colidiscope. Blackness closed over him, followed by a faint glimmer of light. This gradually increased in brightness, and sensation crept back lurgidly into Oliver's world grew more substantial, as it progressed by degrees into clarity.

"By gosh! The boy's awake!"

"He's coming round, certain enough!"

"Oh, Oliver! Oh, Oliver, dear!"

Oliver realized that he was lying on his back in a soft, downy bed. He recognized the room around him. It was his bedroom at Maylie's house, the very same one he'd spent in back in time he had been recovery from his bullet-wound. There were several people in the room with him, standing beside the bed.

The boy smiled weakly as he fondly recognized all of them—Mr. Brownlow, Rose, his uncle Peter, Dr. Losberne, and constable Thomas Flickart.

Rose rushed to his beside. "Oh, Oliver,' she cried, tears rolling down her cheeks. Oliver was still weak from massive blood-loss, as he been that time before, but he managed to embrace her weakly. "Oh, Rose!" the boy cried. "You'll never guess what happened! I just saw Nancy! And my friend Dick from the workhouse! They're in Heaven!"

"You—you were in heaven, Oliver, dear? You saw heaven?"

Oliver nodded. "It's beautiful there, Rose, better then I ever imagined!"

"You'd best get your rest now, young Oliver," Tom Flickart told him. "You can tell us about it all later."

"Yes, sir."

The constable smiled at him. "Well, my boy! Welcome back to the land of the living. Good thing for you that Mr. Poe's serum actually worked! I'll admit, I had my doubts."

"Mr. Poe?" Oliver inquired.

"He's the man you have to thank for saving your life, boy."

Two other gentlemen entered the room. They shouldered their way between Rose and Peter Fleming. Oliver recognized them. One of them he, hazily remembered, was the young man had carried him to safety and somehow had mirculously been able to heal his throat wound. The other was a rather gloomy-looking dark-haired man in a dark, fine suit. This was the gentleman who had tried to help him seconds before he had lost consciousness.

"Greetings, young Oliver," this man said. "My name is Edgar Allen Poe. Have you heard of me, boy?"

Oliver wasn't sure, but the name, he thought, had a familiar ring to it. "I'm…not sure I do sure. But I'm very grateful for saving my life. Pray, how did you do it, sir?"  
"There is no knonwn antidote for the Red Death. So…I had had to come up with one myself. You swallowed enough of the plague-serum to kill you almost instantly. I had to force you to swallow all of the antidote."

"I'm…awfully glad that you did , sir."

"As well you should be." Poe said, a touch of sadness in his voice. "The Red Death is most horrible way to go. I should know—I'm the man who invented it. "

"He was also the only man capable of curing it," the other man said.

"And though you may not heard of me," said Poe, "I most certainly have heard of _you_, boy. I don't think you'll ever realize how famous you've become."

"That's right," said the other man, whose name was Jack Burton. "I doubt you ever will. But where I'm from, nearly everyone knows of the orphan boy who dared ask for more."

"It was very brave, what you did, lad," Poe told Oliver. "Drinking the Red Death. I mean. But I would have been able to provide the cure anyway. That is why Mr. Burton brought me here."

"Wh-where is Mr. Quigsnip?"Oliver inquired.

"That awful man ? " said Rose."Why, he's been arrested Oliver. At long last! Your friend Celia found more than enough evidence on him!"

"Ah, that's very right, young Twist!" said Tom Flickart. "Your name has been entirely cleared, lad! All London now knows the truth about him—how he was the blackguard of hundreds of crimes all over London. They know how he colaberated with Drummle and Screed to frame you! And his dealings with that mysterious Lord Darvell character! Though who _he_ really is, or was, we still have no real leads as of yet—though we know full well that it was his idea to murder constable Snerkins in cold blood, and make it appear as if you had done now, rest assurred my good young friend, Mr. Screed, and Mr. Quigsnip, and everyone we could find in connection with them, will all pay dearly for what they've done. Everyone knows the truth, young Oliver."

"And that means," said Lord Peter Fleming," That you are still entitled as an heir to the Wilshire Barony! I look forward to passing my title on to you!"

'Thank you, sirs," Oliver said. "But Mr. Quignsip—what will become of him?"

"Well," said Flcikart. "He's never going to harm another soul, you can rest comfortable on that, lad! "

"You mean-?"

"Why, they're going to hang him, my boy! Haha! The very same fate he attempted to foist so cruelly upon you! It's not my business to attend public executions, and I've not once taken pleasure in them—but in this case, I'll admit, I'd relish the spectacle!"

"Oh, no!" cried the boy. "I don't what the man to die!"

All of the grownups in the room looked stunned for a moment.

"Don't want him to die?" said Flickart at last. "Think of what he tried to do to you boy! What he _did_ do!"

Oliver thought about it. Quigsnip terrified him, even now. And when he thought on the man taking him from his family,and when he thought on what Quignip's men had nearly done to Rose, the recollection made the boy's heart flame with childish rage. Part of him _did_ hate the man. Yes, he asked to be hung. Fagin had at least taken him in, Oliver knew. He owed Quigsnip less than nothing. But he made himself remember that even Quignsip had demons of his own. And he thought of his daughter, Eloise, who had stood up for him, and how Quignsnip, despite his evil, cared for her. And then there was Nancy…

"I don't want them to hang him,": Oliver told him.

"Why, boy? Whatever affection could you possibly harbor for the man?"

"I don't, sir. But even he deserves a chance. I couldn't save Fagin. Maybe I can save him."

"Hmmm. And how would you do so, boy?This blackguard cares for no one! Besides, his sentence has already been passed. Justice served, if I say so myself!"

"Then I want to see him, at least. Take me to see him, one last time."


	34. Chapter 35

35

Mr. Burton and Mr. Poe were stting downstairs in two comfortable armchairs at Maylies'. Mr. Brownlow, Rose, Harry, Mrs. Maylie and Mr. Copperfeild and his wife Agnes were present.

"…and so, once I left Hop-Frog and Trippeta, in the Poeverse, I did not immediately pursue the _Grinning Man_. Instead, I sought out my own universe, in the mid eighteen-hundreds, in Baltimore. That is where I met Mr. Poe."

"And Mr. Burton arrived at the time I was already in a state of deep shock," Poe told them. "I had just recently encountered that personage that he calls 'The Grinning Man.' It was he who had already intorduced me to the concept of worlds other than my own. The encounter had left me in a woefully disraught state. I had journeyed down to the local pub, and was in the process of drinking myself into a heavy stupor, when Burton—bless his soul—rescued me. We went back to my house, and though I had no idea who he was or where he was from , I explained everything to him. He told me a fantasitc story, one I'd never have believed otherwise. But following my encountner with the Grinning Man I was prepared to believe anything. The task he gave me was simple enough, though.'

"Yes, it was," said Mr. Burton. "Though as I recall, you seemed a bit reluctant at first. I asked him to come up with a cure for the Red Death."

"At first I supposed that Mr. Burton was joking," Poe said, "but then I saw that he was dead serious. I told him 'no', at the first, that he didn't presume to tell an artist what or how he might conduct his tales. But after he explained to me what was at stake, and that I need not—he didn't think, at any rate—alter my original tale, merely compose a new tale that need not even be published, I agreed. So I set to work. Only a few lines did I need write, in fact."

"Then I returned to the Poeverse," Burton said. "Only I persuaded Mr. Poe to accompany me there. Sure enough, we found a vial of the antidoate in a cabinet in the room of the mad alchemist, Fernando Ruiz. It turned out he'd created the elixir shortly after the Red Death had ravaged the countyr—only he did not know this! The past had come alive, just as I knew it would, just as I told him, according to the passage Mr. Poe had scribbled down."

"What if Mr. Poe had altered the text, or if he changes it sometime later?" Rose asked.

Mr. Burton shrugged. "If he changes the story—well, that means the past in which the story takes place becomes altered a well. Does that particular time line plit in two, creating two separate universes, or is it merely overwritten? I'm guessing the latter, since writers do this all too frequently, and thus we would end up with a mulitplicity of story worlds, not just one.

"I"ve been wondering about that myself," Mr. Copperfield said, "I myself am a writer. Are you saying that _somewhere_, my own creatiosn are real, and that what I write down with ink on page somehow shapes and determines their lives?"

"Yes, sir," mr. Burton said, "that is precisely what I am saying."

"Then did you ever consider, sir," said Mr. Copperfield, "That_ your "_world" or "universe" orn whatever you call, might itself be a fictional creation?"

"I have considered it," Mr. Burton said. "in particular since learning about your own fictitious creation, Mr. Charles Dickens."

"Only partially fictional, my friend," said David Cipperfield, "As I've said, much of what occurs is semi-autobiographical. And as for yourself, sir, I'd never thought to invent such a wildly improabable character as you."

"Tell them about your next story," Agnes urged him, "Tell them what it is going to be."

"Oh, all right, my dear," Mr. Copperfeild said, "Though I've pointed out the wretched conditons of the shcools and the workplaces in my novels, I'm afraid I've yet to write a story of the underclass. But your Oliver's story, since I've now become personally involved in it, has served inspire me. My next serialization will be called _Robert Blincoe, orThe Parish Boy's Odyssey_. I don't wish to divulge too much of the plot to you, but I plan to detail the life a young Parish lad the hardships he endures. I may have him apprenticed to a chimmney sweeper, perhaps. I do plan on having him eventually marry and work his own way out of of poverty, unlike young Oliver. I can already hear the critics, though—it wouldn't be realistic for a parish orphan to escape poverty without having a rich family, like Oliver. But I've never been one to pay attention to the critics."

Indeed," said Mr. Burton "It should become a bestseller."

And so, for the time being at any rate, all was put to right. Celia Jacobin and Jacob Taggle were reunited with their families. Both children were comended for their bravery in the face of extraordinary odds. Jacob's father was released from prison, once Oliver's family decided to pay him off, and he was reunited with his wife and two children. Flintwick Screed was removed from his position after Oliver's innocence was established, and made to work as a common laborer. Gamfield was arrested and imprisoned once word got out in regard to the deaths of his apprentices; it was made certain that he would never work as a chimney sweep again upon his release.

And once arrangements were mad,e Oliver made sure to visit his former tormentor Mr. Quigsnip in prison.

Mr. Brownlow drove him there in his carraige. As with the time they had visited Fagin in his condemned cell, Oliver's guardian accompanied him. But this time, Oliver determined not to enter the condemned man's cell itself, if could avoid at all doing so. Theguard led the boy and his guardian down a long, gloom-filled corridor, until at last they came to a door that behind it, the guard informed them, was imprisoned London's imfamous crime lord. The guard drew back the covering from the iron –barred window on the door. Oliver stood on tip-toe, and grasping he metal bars of the small aperture, peered within.

There, huddled far in a corner, half-lost in shadow, was his nemesis, the infamous humpback man. Oliver's breath caught in his throat at first. Then he managed, "Mr. Quignsip! Mr. Quigsnip!"

The hunch back stirred. Then he stood up coming to his defromed and stnted hieght. Oliver once more beheld the man's hideous features; they recalled horrible memories to the boy, and his heart leapt into his throat.

Quignsip fixed him with a vulture-like stare. "_Oliver!_ It's you isn't it?" he said in a horrid, sneering voice, that made gooseflesh crawl on the boy's arms. "Came to see me 'afore they hang me, did you? Came to pay your last respects, did you, brat?"

The boy felt his insides shrivel and cringe. Oliver, now that he was here, now that he again beheld the man Quignsip, the monster who'd nearly had him hung, who had attempted even, to murder him afterwards, felt his words freeze on his tongue, even though he'd rehearsed to himself what he was going to say during the carraige ride over here.

Qugsnip, after fixing Oliver with a most malevolent glare, turned violently away. "Well, boy, spare me your pity! Spare me your kindness! Spare me even the mere sight of you!"

Oliver, no longer confronted by the man's contenance, was able to summon forth his courage. "But sir-!"

"I won't hear it!"

"I can save your life! My uncle and Mr. Brownlow are going to get your sentence changed to deportation! I've told them that I want that, and they'll do it, sir!"

Quignsip turned his glare savagely again toward young Oliver. Once more, the boy was stunned by the hatred he saw there. But now there was something diffeerent as well, he noticed, as though the man's hatred was not entirely directed against him. "Change my sentence? To deportation?"

"They'd do it sir! At least, they'll try they're best. I told them I don't want you to die, sir!"

"Why, Oliver?" the hunchback demanded. "_Why_ do you want to save one such as me?"

"Because you're right, sir. Fagin died because of me. I couldn't save him. And …..Nancy died too, trying to help me. I couldn't even save her either. So I felt I had to try to save you sir."

"After all I've done to you? You should hate me, boy!Haha!" the hunchback laughed madly. "You're not right in the head , young Twist! Just like your name! 'Oliver Twist!' It suits you!"

"Please, sir—"

"Don't 'please sir,' me, boy!" said the hunchback, turning his face from Oliver again.

"You still have Elosie, sir! I….guess I want you to live because of _her!"_

A sudden change seemed to come over the hunchback. "Eloise…yes, yes, she is still here. She's still alive..thank the Lod."he said in a strangely subdued voice.

Thanking the Lord sounded a bit strange coming from Quignsip, and it gave Oliver hope. "You care for her, don't you, Mr. Quignsip?"

"Yes, curse you, boy!" raved the cripple. "Yes, I care fro her, God knows, I do! That would be a reason for you wouldn't it? Eloise—she's kind and sweet, so unlike me. And she tired to save you, didn't she boy? Yes, I suppose that gives you a reason to want to me to live as well."

"Then, would you live for her?"

"Yes…yes, she would give me reason to go on living!"

"My uncle will do all that he can sir!"

Oliver was about to leave when Quignsip called, "Wait, boy, wait! Don't leave! Not yet!"

Oliver pressed his face to the bars again.

"Promise me, boy!As the good lad everyone knows you are, promise me that you'll make sure she'd takne care of when I'm gone, however it is that I must go!"

"I will, sir! On my honor, I will!"

"Now leave me, boy! Leave me in peace, that I might spend my final hours quietly."

Oliver left him. And exactly as he'd promised, Oliver made certain he would see that Eloise was provided for by his uncle and Mr. Brownlow. Lord Peter Fleming, against his own wishes, but wanting to satisfy Oliver, was successful in overturning Mr. Quignsnip's death snetence.

But shortly afterward, Oliver and his friends received the news.

The morning before Quignsip was sentenced for deportation to the colonies, the man who had been London's most feared crime-baron was found dead his cell. The man was heard raving in his cell the night before. The guards reported that he had been heard crying out ot the Lord for forgivness. It seemed so unlike what they would have thought for an imfamous crime-lord, that they could scarcely credit that it had been him. The coroners could not pronounce a cause of death, but Oliver thought he knew the causee.

Zebedias Quignsnip, having lived an entire life of villainy, and having at last learned the Truth, had died of a broken heart.

Oliver was certain of it, as sure as his soul. So althought they had been unable to spare Mr. Quigsnip's life, Oliver himself had surely saved him from the fate that had awaited him afterward.

Oliver had no further dreams of Nancy or Dick Swubble. But sometimes, when the boy was in a state of half-concisousness, that border-realm between that of dreams and the waking world, he often imagined that he saw them togather, in that wondrous world he had visited. And sometimes, a younger man he recognized as Mr. Quignsip was with them. This man, in the brief impressions he received, was not a cripple, no longer deformed as he had been on earth, and younger when his wife had first known him, but it was the same man, nonetheless. And other times, it was his own dear mother whom he saw. And Oliver sensed that she was waiting for him in the world that would follow this one.

All this, Oliver knew.

And it filled the boy's heart to overflowing with joy.


	35. Epilogue

Epilogue

Once again, Christmas had come to the Dickensverse.

In the grand old manorhouse that had once belonged to Miss Havishham, Phillip Pirrip and his family and friends were throwing a great party.

For Christmas dinner they had a large turkey, one of those handsome, scrumptious birds imported form America, a blazing plum pudding, sliced ham, and apricot saucefine mince pie, cramberry sauce, candied sweetpotatoes, hot smoking bishop, and at last, a grand bowl of hot rum punch.

Present were Mr. Phillip Pirrip and his newfound wife, the former Mrs. Estella Drummle, now Mrs. Estella Pirrip, Mr. Herbert Pocket, of London, Startop, another old schoolfreind of Pip's Mr Joseph Gargery, and his wife, Biddy Gargery, and their children, and of course, the Pirrip children of whom there were seven in all. And then there was one older gentleman, Mr. Abel Magwitch, the Pirrip children's gandfather, who would often have them sit on his knee, and tell them long tales of his adventures in far-distant New South Wales. The tragic thing was, the children's grandfather could never leave the house; for he was under penalty of death if he ever were to return from Australia. But fortunately for him, the Havishham mansion was vast and honeycombed with secret rooms and passages. There was plenty of territory for them to hide him in.

But also present on this particular Christmas was another youngish gentleman, name of Jack Burton. The man had become acquianted with them, through Ms. Estella's declaration that Oliver Twist Fleming had helped save her life. And that incident was what had brought about a sudden and wonderous change over Estella. Burton himself had returned to his own world and time for a about a year, but returned to this time in the Dickensverse in order to ascertain that no other damaging changes were made.

Bentley Drummle, he knew, had not died at the exact time and place that he was supposed to, so a scar had been riven across this world. And though scares heal themselves, blemishes and alterations result. And Magwich had never been intended to survive. Worse by far, his mortal enemy, Compeyson, was still at large.

The DIckensverse had been changed by Lord Darvell's intervention.

And had the Grinning Man, Lord Darvell, truly died when he had fallen into that fissure? The swarming creatures that made up the ether between the worlds would devour any creature, ture. But the Grinning man had found ways to to traverse the space between the worlds on his own. Could he have survived the incident? Most likely not. Then again, there was no proof that he hadn't….

Far from the mansion, in the pub known as the Three Cripples, a gentlemanly rogue with a scar jutting down his face at at a table, drinking today's spiced-rum special, when a man entered, and placed a large package on the table before him.

"What is this, might I ask?" the scarred man inquired.

"I-I don't really know," the man, who looked like a laborer, inquired. "A man in street ordered me to give this to you. I don't know what it is, I swear."

"Then be off with you," said the scarred mann, whose name was Tobias Compeyson. The man was off, and seemed eager to quit the place.

Compeyson looked around. Few were present in the bar upon Christmas day. Then he examined the package. It was wrapped in bright holiday paper. There was a tag attached announcing, "To Mr. Tobias Compeyson, esquire."

What was this, some manner of jest at his expense?

Compeyson tore off the paper, wadded it up, then carefully examined the item.

It was large leatherbound book with a note taped on. Tearing off the note, Compeyson read it. It read:

Dear Mr. Compeyson,

_Please use the book to accomplish your goals of power and revenge. But be certain you keep it in a safe place, and read the instructions contianed within with utmost precaution! The conseqeunces for not following them, or fudging on the rules even slightly will be harrowing beyond your most wild book comes from another world, but more than that, I am not about to divulge to you._

_All the best, _

_Lord D._

Lord D.? he knew no one who went by such a name. This must be a prank after all. But the book appeared exotic and pocketed the note and examined the

book's cover.

On the front, in gilded print, it read:_The Necromonicon._

In the Dickensverse, the tides of evil had once more begun to gather.

FIN


End file.
